Broken Compass

“I will.” I get up, come to stand beside him. I’m not really a touchy-feely sort of guy. Tentatively, I rest a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses—then lets out a sigh. “But why keep him at a distance?”

“Dammit, you’ve seen me, how I was that night. I’m so screwed up. I can’t let him see. He can read me so damn easily. And now he may be in danger because of me.”

Ah hell. “In danger? Why?”

“Because his dad has gone after West.” Sydney walks in, and I expect her to glare at Nate like last night, expect to see anger linger in her green gaze.

I only see sadness. Makes me wonder how much she heard before walking in.

Then my gaze drifts lower, and I swallow hard. She’s dressed in a white mini dress today, all summery and sexy, a slender black belt drawing my eyes to the dip of her waist and the flare of her breasts and hips. An hourglass figure.

Yeah, I’m starting to find Nate attractive, but Syd has me wound up already. She slips under my skin, overheats my blood before I know what hit me, and it gets stronger every day. The more I see her, the more I want her.

What a motherfucking bad idea…

With a soft curse, I reach down to adjust myself in my jeans—the pair I slept in—and her gaze follows my hand, eyes darkening.

Then it’s her turn to swallow, and she turns her gaze back to Nate. “You need to talk to us Nate. About your dad.”

Her words break the spell.

“The hell I do.” Nate shrugs my touch off and turns around to go, brows drawn together.

“What were they doing to you?” In my mind’s eye, I see him in his parents’ bedroom, see his mom come out dressed in that transparent nightgown. “Your parents. What did they do?”

Sydney’s sharp inhale is too loud in the sudden quiet. She leans back against the kitchen door, a

nd twists her hands together.

Nate has stopped. He’s so still he doesn’t seem to be breathing. His face is white as a sheet.

Then he shrugs, the movement stiff. “They’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not my parents.”

Sydney shoots me a shocked look. I can only return it. This sure is news to me. “What about your mom?”

“She’s not my mom. Stepmom.”

Stepmom. “Is she the one who used to hurt you?” I ask.

“No, man, that’s… No.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats, but not before I see them shaking.

“Your dad?”

“No, it’s not… Look, I don’t fucking wanna talk about it. Ever. So drop it.”

“At least tell me what the scars on your back are,” I say.

“What the hell do you think they are? You said it. Scars.”

“From what?”

“From trying to run from home when I was ten. I was caught and punished.” A shudder goes through him, and I’m taking a step toward him, concerned, when he curses.

Then he pushes past an open-mouthed Sydney, and seconds later the apartment door slams shut.