Broken Compass

Worry gnaws at my stomach. Isn’t he in yet? I doubt he already landed another night job. Holy frigging shit, these boys are going to give me ulcers.

Shrugging off my light jacket, slipping off my sandals, I have a glass of water and tell myself to stop worrying. Also, he may be inside, already asleep.

But my mind won’t give it a rest, and besides, what would it hurt to just check that he’s here?

Cracking his door open, I glance inside.

There he is, fast asleep, lying on his back on top of his bed. He’s still fully dressed, one arm folded under his head. Faded blue jeans, black tank top, bare feet, messy dark hair. He looks as if he lay down to rest and fell asleep.

His lips are parted. His jaw is dark with stubble. He’s utterly beautiful. Why does he have to be so gorgeous? So gorgeous, and so sad.

As I stand at his door, transfixed, he makes a sound. It’s not a good sound, more like a choked moan. Then his back arches off the mattress, and he gasps out loud.

“Nate!” I take a step back, then a step forward, unsure what to do. “Nate. Wake up.”

He hauls himself up on one elbow, drawing ragged breaths, then drags his hand over his face. He blinks at me but doesn’t seem to see me. In the strip of light from the door, his face looks ashen and gray.

Boy, that must have been one hell of a bad dream.

I move slowly toward the bed, but when I approach him, he scoots back, curling in on himself.

“Nate, it’s me, Sydney.” I sit on the edge of his bed. What I want is to climb on the bed with him, stroke his hair, wrap myself around him and chase away every bad dream.

But when I reach for him, even as my hand touches his bare arm, he jerks back again.

“Get off me,” he hisses, his voice unrecognizable, “get the fuck off me.” He shoves at me and scrambles back, his head hitting the wall with a thunk. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

I recoil, cold washing through me. Bad dream? Scratch that. This had to be the frigging mother of all nightmares. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t think he could break my heart any more than his reluctant confessions to Kash this morning, but guess I was wrong.

He’s shaking so hard the bed is creaking. He hasn’t recognized me. The dark probably isn’t helping things.

“Nate…” I lean over and switch on the lamp on his nightstand. Golden light spills in the room, chasing away the shadows—except for the ones lurking in his gaze. “It’s just me.”

He blinks, lifts a hand to shade his eyes. “What?”

“It’s me.” All I can think of is that it’s Nate. My best friend. And he’s in pain.

“Fuck. Syd.” His voice is still rough, and he lets out a shaky breath as he uncurls enough to stretch his legs out on the bed. He glances around with a frown, as if he isn’t sure where he is. “Thank fuck.” Another pause as he settles back against his pillows and avoids my gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in on you,” I whisper, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Who did you think I was?”

“No one,” he says hoarsely, and I don’t believe him for a second.

But I don’t ask again. I don’t touch him again, either, not after his reaction. I stay well away from him.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” I mutter. “And then I’ll go, let you sleep.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, and leans sideways, catching my hand in a hard grip. “Don’t go.”

I still. I honestly can’t remember the last time Nate touched me. His amber eyes are on our clasped hands, not my face. He seems as shocked as I am by his action.

His fingers release me and he slowly pulls his hand away from mine, but his gaze lingers to where my dress has ridden up to bare my thigh, almost to the lace of my panties. His hand comes to rest on my thigh, his palm warm and rough.

Oh God.

His fingers trail down my leg to my knee, then back up, under my dress, tugging on my panties. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, dark lashes casting shades on his cheekbones.