No Saint (Wild Men 6)

He’s too frigging close to that edge.

“Ross...” I whisper. “Don’t move. Please don’t move.”

I hear the scrape of his boot on the tin as he shifts and then slips. Shock registers on his face, brows arching, mouth opening—and that’s when I realize he’s falling.

My blood runs cold. “Ross!” I’m already running and sliding across the roof to reach him, horribly aware I’m too late. “No!”

Slipping on the waves of the tin, I barely stop myself from plunging over the edge. My heart slamming around in my chest, I kneel and draw a shaky breath before peeking over, terrified of what I’ll see.

I look down at the narrow strip of yard and the street and see...

Nothing.

Well, the crashed bottle, a puddle of liquid spreading around it, but... No human-shape splatter.

Instead, when I bow my head a bit more and look straight down, I see right underneath me a dark shadow, fingertips caught on a drainpipe sticking out under the roof.

God. Thank God. Oh holy crap, he’s alive.

“Ross.” My voice sounds hoarse, even though I’ve only been screaming inside my head. “Hang on. I’ll get you up.”

He glances up, face white. He says nothing, and that’s just as we

ll as I scoot back and lie down on my belly, right at the edge, reaching down for him.

Can I hold his weight? Haul him up?

It doesn’t matter. There’s no choice. I need to find a way. I pull myself further, reach lower. Pale blue eyes flick up at my hand that’s dangling over him.

“Take my hand,” I manage. “Come on, Ross.”

But he doesn’t move.

“Please, Ross. Don’t. Don’t let go.”

An eternity passes.

“I should,” he finally whispers. “I wanted to.”

“No. Take my hand.”

“I can’t,” he says. “I’ll drag you down with me.”

My eyes fill with tears. I blink them away. “No, you won’t. Come on.”

“I wasn’t supposed to grow old,” he whispers, and I’m not sure he’s talking to me.

I reply anyway. “Yes, you were. You are. Whoever made you believe the opposite is an asshole.” I’m babbling, not sure what I’m saying. “Forget all that. Just let me pull you up.”

“You can’t, girl. You don’t have the strength.”

There’s regret in his voice, and it chills me. He’s right, I can’t pull him up, I’m not strong enough, his weight will drag us both down, and...

And no way am I letting him fall. Strength comes in many forms. We have tools for a reason. I can go up to him.

How?

The ladder. The ladder! I can’t lift him up. But I can put up the ladder so he can get down.