by Jo Raven
Sydney
Well, this night went both right and wrong. I had no idea Nate gets migraines. West said he thought they’d stopped. Obviously, he was wrong.
He sent me home, promising to call me when Nate wakes up again. I couldn’t sleep, though, even if Nate didn’t throw up again and looked better when I left his side. He was fast asleep, and his face had finally relaxed.
It eased some of the fear churning inside me. When West texted me at the party that Nate wasn’t well, I thought I’d die trying to find them in that maze of a house. When I saw Nate on the bathroom floor, white as a sheet, a hand over his eyes, I swear my heart had stopped.
That boy worries me.
West worries me, too.
What am I going to do with these boys? Why can’t I pull back and pretend I don’t care? Why can’t I pause these feelings, and focus more on my own problems?
My own sorrow and fear.
At least I’d located Kash, and he’s the one who helped Weston carry Nate to the cab he found for us, and then up to the apartment. He was a solid presence through it all, practical and focused, bringing a bucket by the bed in case Nate had to throw up, finding painkillers and anti-nausea pills.
Kash seems to be in control—the only one of us who wasn’t in a panic.
So why do I feel as if I should be worried about him, too?
Force of habit, maybe, I think, and open the balcony door to get some fresh air, the apartment too stifling.
Speaking of the devil… A figure is leaning on the balcony rail of Nate’s apartment, the end of his cigarette glowing red, smoke curling up into the gray, early dawn.
Kash.
He’s like a wraith against the lightening sky, in his robin-egg blue T-shirt and washed-out jeans, his pale hair and face, the smoke leaving his lips.
I lean against the rail, close to him, and his gaze flicks my way. He says nothing.
The silence is comfortable, companionable. I didn’t expect it to be, not after sharing a kiss and then avoiding any mention of it. But maybe it’s the night we’ve had, taking care of Nate, that is to blame.
“So you’re leaving?” I ask.
He doesn’t speak for long moments, so long in fact I’m not sure he heard me.
Then he smirks, and says, “You’re welcome.”
I blink, at a loss. “What?”
“I said you’re welcome for my help in bringing your friends back together.”
My mouth is gaping open. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. I mean, no thanks? Here you are, all friends again. One big happy family.”
Anger warms my chest. Yeah, here I am, sad about him leaving, and he’s making a joke out of it. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He gives a hoarse bark of laughter. “Why the hell not?”
“You could be part of this family.” His admittance—that he is sad about not being one of us—cools my sparking anger. “You could stay.”
“No. I really couldn’t.” He blows out more smoke, and I catch a hint of sweetness in the tobacco scent.
Not enough to counteract the acid in the back of my throat, the burn behind my eyelids. “Right. Or maybe you don’t want to.”
He flinches slightly, tries to cover it up by sucking on his joint. A swirl of smoke escapes the corner of his mouth.
“You’re smoking weed,” I mutter.
“So what if I am?”
“Is that what you were buying at the party? Weed? That why you wanted to go?”
“If all I wanted was weed, Red, there were easier ways to get my hands on it.”
It’s my turn to flinch at his harsh tone. “Why?”
“I’m a junkie. What do you think? I’m a bad person, Sydney. You should stay away from me.”
My heart is hammering. I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not.”
“Look… thanks. For all of it. For helping the boys be friends again. For helping Nate.” I suck on my lower lip. “Please don’t go.”
“You’re welcome.” He lifts his lighter and relights his cigarette. “But I have to.”
He sucks a lungful of smoke, his eyes closing. The rising sun makes his face look white like marble, the piercings flash like flames.
“You know, you don’t look that old,” I say.
“What?” Smoke curls out of his mouth.
“You said you’re twenty? Well, you don’t look it. You don’t look any older than me, and I’m barely seventeen.”
He closes his eyes, lets the smoke escape from his lips, and I find myself staring at them. He has a beautiful mouth, I think randomly, his upper lip lush and dimpled, giving him a slight pout.
It’s strangely sexy.
“Believe me,” he says, his pale lashes lifting again. “I’m much older than you. Old like the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
I sigh. “Don’t go, Kash.”
“Stop worrying your pretty little head about me. I’m not worth it.” Turning on his heel, he heads back and disappears inside the apartment without another word.
The balcony door closes behind him.
“You are an ass,” I tell the closed door, anger heating my face. “You don’t get to patronize me like that.”
But of course he can’t hear me anymore.
When he’d held me and kissed me, I’d felt as if there was nothing separating us, as if our minds and souls had touched. As if he could see inside my head, and I could see inside his.
But this morning, I feel as if he’s drawn back, leaving a gulf between us wide and deep as the ocean.
I hate how my eyes burn.
Making my way back inside, I lie in my bed, unable to stop replaying what he said inside my head.
“Much older than you. Old like the world.”
“I’m not worth it.”
There was such sadness in his voice. Such defeat.
The anger seeps out of me. He was just being an asshole, I tell myself. He doesn’t want your concern, that much is clear.
He’s leaving, for God’s sake. He doesn’t want to stick around and take care of your little gang. Doesn’t want to bother anymore with childish fights and kids whose parents don’t give a shit about them.
And if only he knew…
He’s right to walk away from this mess. At least he won’t get to see me fall apart.
“School’s almost over,” Nate says the next day.
It’s a Sunday, so at least we get to stay home. Nate looks like death warmed over, and West doesn’t look much better. I bet he didn’t get any shut-eye all night.
I feel like something the cat chewed and then threw up, but I paste on a smile and put the soup I made on the nightstand. “You should eat something.”
Nate’s face lights up. “I sure could.”
That’s a good sign. He can’t be all that nauseous if he wants to eat. West helps him sit up and we place the soup in front of him.
“How do you get through this alone?” I mutter, placing the napkin I brought from my apartment by his hand. “Who takes care of you when you get migraines?”
“I don’t eat,” he says, too cheerfully, while a knot forms in my stomach. He slurps the soup like a starved man. “I just ride it out. Man, this is good. You’re a super cook, Syd.”
“Thanks.” My face heats. “Nate…”
“What about Jane? Doesn’t she cook for you?” West’s brows have drawn together and his mouth is a thin line. “Your dad—”
“Fuck my dad.”
The statement hangs in the air between us, like an axe waiting to drop. Nate has stilled, the spoon dipped in the soup.
West sucks in a sharp breath. “But I thought—”
The soup bowl goes flying, crashing against the wall.
I jerk back.
West’s hands clench into fists.
“What I think,” Nate says in the ringing silence, his eyes gli
ttering, and swings his legs off the bed, “is that I’m gonna head home. Need to catch up on some homework. Thanks for taking care of me and everything.”
“Wait, Nate.” I move to stop him as he struggles to get up, his face paling. “Let me help—”
“No.” He hangs his head, draws an uneven breath. “Thanks. I really mean it. I owe you guys.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry about the bowl. Sorry about everything.”
And with that he pushes to his feet, wavers for a long second, and then walks out.
“Something’s wrong,” I whisper.
West wrings out the washcloth and attacks the soup stain on the wall again, his jaw clenched. “Ya think?”
“The bruises,” I whisper.
“If his dad is beating him, I fucking swear to God, I…” He sighs, wipes his face on his arm, and dips the washcloth in the bucket again. “I have to get Nate to talk to me.”
I nod, my heart hammering. Nate’s dad is a big guy, and no matter how much taller he has grown since I moved in here, he’s no match for his dad. Just the thought makes me feel sick.
“Then talk to him. He may confide in you. He trusts you.”
“He trusts you, too.” At my dismissive huff, he throws the washcloth back in the bucket and sits back on his heels. “He does. But this could be one of those things.”
“What things?”
“Guy things. Nate… he really likes you.”
He gets up and I frown at him. “And?”
“And you’re a girl.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Guys are proud. We don’t wanna look like we can’t handle stuff in front of girls we like, so…”
“Jesus, West. If his dad is beating him—”
“We don’t know that.”
“The hell we don’t!”
“Come on.” He gives me a hand up, and I take it absently, letting him haul me to my feet. “We should eat something, too. Unless you have other plans.”
I let him tug me to the kitchen and sit at the table while he makes grilled cheese sandwiches. “How can you be hungry after all this?”
“What? I’m always hungry. I’m a growing boy.”
He sure is. And the food he consumes isn’t only going to gaining height but to the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and…
God, focus, Sydney.
I lick my dry lips. “Promise you’ll talk to Nate? At the very least, we need to convince him to tell us when he gets a migraine, so we can take care of him.”
“I’ll talk to him. Now dig in.” He pushes a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me. “You’re as skinny as Nate.”
I scowl. “Not true.”
“Your mom not feeding you? Maybe I should have a talk with you, too. Or her.”
“Mom’s fine,” I mumble, and bite into the sandwich so I don’t have to talk.
Guess Nate isn’t the only one who avoids the family topic. My palms are sweating when I think I’ll eventually have to fess up to the guys. Pressure builds in my chest whenever I think about it.
I wonder if throwing soup bowls at the wall helps. Maybe Nate is onto something there. Maybe I should try it at home.
By the time I’m done with my sandwich, Weston has finished his and is shoveling cereal into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Hey, West?”
“Mm.” He swallows a huge mouthful. “What?”
I look down at myself. “You meant what you said? I’m too skinny?”
“You’re pretty,” he says, shovels another huge spoonful into his mouth. Then he looks down into his bowl and becomes so engrossed in his cereal that I doubt he finds time to breathe, he’s eating so fast.
Huh.
I glance down at myself again. West thinks I’m pretty?
Pretty in a little sister sort of way, I bet. I mean, he did say I was skinny first. He was probably trying to soothe my ego.
This is so confusing…
After breakfast, after wiping the kitchen down until every surface is gleaming, West proposes we play videogames in his room.
Despite being dead on my feet after the night we’ve had, and despite West looking as tired as I feel, I say yes. Don’t want to pass up on the opportunity to spend time with him and get back to normal. It means so much to me, it’s frigging scary.
And it feels good, to be back in West’s tidy room with its perfectly made bed and the lack of clothes piles on the floor, the Skyrim figures he’s been collecting standing in a perfect line on his shelf and his Elder Scrolls posters placed with military precision over his bed, one right next to the other, without a millimeter of deviation.
I remember how he looked when he opened the door two days ago, how he fell to his knees, his hand burned with bleach, his skin cold and clammy. How the apartment had sparkled, so shiny clean it had hurt my eyes. How his heart had raced as I’d held him.
But he doesn’t mind getting all down and dirty in the game, and he kicks my ass yet again. One day I will beat him. I swear he knows all the tricks and how to get all the weapons and spells and skills. He’s so focused. He’s always so focused on everything he does, and I’m distracted by his narrowed blue eyes, the vein ticking in his neck, the hunch of his big shoulders as his avatar runs and dodges spells and runs around all badass.
West is badass. He makes my heart hurt.
I wonder if he’s so focused when he does other things, like kissing and touching, or when he’s kissed and touched. If he can stay in control or if he’ll lose it, break apart, trust me to keep him together, and show him how much…
How much I care.
And that reminds me of Kash and what he told me on the balcony, about leaving. About being a bad person. About the way my heart felt then, like a jagged stone in my chest.
Jesus, Sydney. Stop.
“Yeah, baby!” West crows, distracting me. He leans back in his chair, and I turn my attention back to the screen to find my avatar is dead—while his has won so many points it’s ridiculous.
Just as ridiculous as lusting after him.
“So… what are your plans for summer?” he asks, arching his back, and I’m staring again.
“No plans.”
“Nothing at all?”
I don’t want to think about summer. It makes me feel stabby.
No school. More empty hours to fill. And somehow the stretch of hot weeks ahead reminds me of the one thing I try not to think about:
Time passing.
“I think I’m gonna go home,” I hear myself say, although it’s the last thing I want. “Catch up on some homework.”
“Don’t go.”
I stay still, surprised. “But…”
“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to. Just stay? If you go…” His hand clenches on his control until the plastic creaks. He looks down at it, his forehead creasing. “I should go talk to Nate, but if you go, I’ll start cleaning and won’t stop. I…” He grimaces. “Dammit.”
Carefully, I put down the control and take his from his hand. “I’ll stay. West, look at me.” I wait until his blue gaze swings back to me. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Fourteen
West
Sydney is quiet. We’re sitting together on the sofa, watching something on TV, some documentary about polar bears.
I think.
She has her hand in mine, and that’s all I can think of. The polar bears can go drown themselves.
She stayed. I asked, and she stayed.
My brain stops past that. Can’t compute. I mean, she’s my friend. I know that, have known it for months now, but my body doesn’t wanna listen to the voice of reason.
Doesn’t want to be just friends, and no matter how fucking hard I try to keep away, I can’t.
I can’t, not with her scent wrapping around me, making my body clench with desire.
She glances at me, and I don’t even care that I’m caught looking at her, at the freckles on her nose, her long lashes, her mouth. “Hey.
” She touches her fingertips to her mouth, and I groan. “West?”
I lick my lips, swallow. “Hm?”
“You’re a million miles away. What are you thinking about?”
“Syd…” Then I’m kissing her, pushing her back against the couch cushions, my arms coming around her, holding her close.
My thoughts fade to white. My body trembles. She tastes better than I’ve ever dreamed. So damn good.
She tastes like happiness and pleasure.
Does she want this? Am I taking it by force?
But then her hands slide up my neck, leaving trails of shivers behind, her fingers burying themselves in my short hair, and her mouth opens under mine.
Fuck, yeah.
I’m made of need. My dick aches. My stomach is clenched tight. My tongue is in her mouth, and I’m not close enough. Her scent, her skin, her curves, her hands, her lips, I’m drowning in her, and I’m still thirsty for her.
She produces a soft moan that burns through me like a flare, and then she’s pulling away.
“West. West, stop.”
I don’t wanna stop. I’m not sure I can.
Gathering my thoughts, I force myself back. “What is it?”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I can’t fucking think straight. Can’t think of a reason why this could be a bad thing. I smooth a thumb over her cheek. So smooth. Like fine velvet. Her mouth is reddened from the kiss. Seeing it that way only muddles my mind more, all blood flowing south, leaving my brain dazed. “Syd…”
She pushes on my chest.
Uncomprehending, I look down at her hand—the hand that was in my hair seconds ago, urging me on as I tasted her mouth.
“Isn’t your granddad coming home soon? I should go,” she says softly. “You know I should, West.”
She twists out from under me, and I open my mouth to deny it, to say something, to make her stay.
I got nothing.
She wants Kash, Nate says.
And Nate wants her.
What am I doing? I thought she wanted this, but I probably caught her by surprise. That has to be why she kissed me back. Fuck, fuck!
She puts a hand over her mouth, then wipes it down over her denim shorts. Her eyes look wet.