Broken Compass

“What?” It takes me a moment to remember what he’s talking about. “Oh right.”

Nate’s lie. The one that got me off the hook last time his dad invited me to join the party and drink with his creepy friends.

“Of course if you changed your mind…”

About my heart condition? God, this guy’s so oily and weird, and his leering buddies don’t seem any better. I’m suddenly so grateful to Nate for his help all those months ago, and speaking of whom…

“Where’s Nate?” I ask.

His dad lifts a brow, sitting down with his friends. “Turned in early, I believe. That boy can’t hold his liquor.”

Shit.

Without another word, I cross the living room and go in search of my friend.

“Nate.” His bedroom is empty, the usual mess of dirty clothes piled on the floor, sheets and covers hanging half-off the bed, his phone on the floor. I gather it up, put it on his desk. “Nate? Where the hell are you, man.”

I open the door to my closet-room, not really hoping to find him there—and I don’t. I glance around, checking like every time to make sure my stuff is still there and nobody took it.

All good. It’s all there.

Relieved, I stand in my room and think. Where else can he be?

Bathroom. Stepping out of my room, I try the bathroom door and it opens. Nobody is inside.

“Looking for something?” a female voice asks, jerking me around. “May I use the bathroom if not? You know…” She waves at the door with a faint smile. “The bathroom.”

Jane. Nate’s mom.

She’s on drugs. I know the look in her eyes, the dazed delight. I’ve seen it on the faces of the junkies hanging around my dealers. And she’s only wearing a semi-transparent nightgown, and…

Fuck. I quickly look away and step back, keeping my gaze averted. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Because this is Nate’s mom, goddammit, and I have no business staring at her nipples through the sheer fabric, of the dark triangle between her legs.

Makes me feel kinda sick to my stomach.

Where the hell is Nate? There’s only one room I haven’t checked, and I hesitate. Jane is in the bathroom, and she’s locked the door. Nate’s dad is sitting with his friends in the living room. But what would Nate be doing in his parents’ bedroom?

My brain refuses to look at the possibilities. All I know is that I need to find him.

So I open the door and step inside. The room smells stuffy and weird, and it’s dark.

But a fresh breeze hits my face, smelling of car exhaust and moist earth, and I realize the window is wide open, the curtains swaying. A shadow cuts a darker shape against the opening.

“Nate!” I hiss, and make a grab for him, but he’s half outside already, sort of kneeling on the sill. He’s dressed only in his underwear, I realize, and silvery lines—old scars?—gleam on his back. “Dammit, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting out.” His voice is quiet, dead.

“Christ, we’re on the second floor. Nate.” I grab his arm, and wonder if I can hold on if he falls. “Come back inside.”

“I can’t.” He’s so still. “I can’t do this anymore. Let me go.”

“No way, man.” I grab his leg with my other hand. “Not letting you go. Come on, Nate. Work with me.”

He doesn’t resist as I haul him back inside. We both drop to the floor, panting.

I’m shaking with reaction, and my mouth tastes of bile. “Jesus Fucking Christ. Don’t scare me like that ever again.”