No Saint (Wild Men 6)

I take a huge breath, fight to calm down my racing heart. “Ross, hang on. I will get you down.”

His voice is faint from below. “Luna, don’t—”

“I said hang on.” It’s so hard to leave him there. “Don’t you dare let go. You owe me, do you hear? You owe me to try. If you fall, I’ll come slap the hell out of you. Just... stay. I’m going to get you down from there, I swear to God.”

He says nothing, and my heart’s in my throat as I scoot back, away from him, and start back up the roof to the trapdoor.

It’s a frenzied dash across the roof and down the trapdoor, my hands slick with sweat, my fingers clumsy. I almost slip and fall the last few rungs, and wouldn’t it be so frigging funny if I twisted an ankle and wasn’t able to go help Ross?

Yeah, not really funny, no.

I manage not to fall. The moment my feet hit the floor, I wrestle the ladder away from the trapdoor. It’s unexpectedly heavy, and kind of stuck in the trapdoor. Probably been there for years, if not decades. I yell as I wrench it away, my hands stinging, and it crashes to the floor.

I flinch hard, in my mind’s eye Ross falling down to the ground, and—

No. No way am I letting him fall.

Hauling the ladder through the garage, dragging it behind me, I make it to the door. Sweat stings my eyes, but I don’t stop to wipe it away. Let it sting. The moments are ticking by, way too fast. How long can Ross cling to that pipe by his fingertips?

Terror is a powerful motivator. Hissing, I force myself to move faster, pulling the ladder around the garage, between piles of old engine parts and rusting metal.

Got to get to Ross in time.

All my denials, all my anger and bitterness are a distant memory, paling when faced with the possibility of losing him. Suddenly other things seem so much more important—his grin, his voice, the feel of his silky hair against my fingers, the taste of his mouth. The easy banter, the light teasing, the way he allowed me close, told me about his past, let me help him.

When I round the corner of the garage and see his long form dangling there, under the lip of the roof, I sob with relief.

“Hang on!” I shout as I drag the ladder underneath him. “Just a few more seconds.”

He’s very still, but even in the dimness broken partly by a street lamp, I can see his whole body trembling. The pipe looks out of shape. Bent. It won’t hold his weight for much longer.

Shit.

I finally reach the right spot and stop. Lifting the heavy ladder to place against the wall is tricky. Twice I start putting it up and it almost topples on top of me. By this point, I’m muttering every swear word I’ve ever heard in my life.

Overhead, the pipe creaks. His body swings a little, and I gasp.

“I deserve this,” he breathes. “It’s okay. Let me go.”

“Shut up, Ross, and keep still. I don’t give up on people I care about.” I slam the ladder against the wall and lean on it until I’m sure it’s stable.

He’s fallen silent, presumably using the last of his strength to hold on to that pipe. Even a guy as strong as Ross can’t hang from his fingertips forever. I’d have dropped to my death a thousand times already—and that’s not the right line of thought right now.

“The ladder is right underneath you!” I call out. “Can you reach it with your feet?”

I watch like a hawk as he glances down. The frigging pipe creaks again, and he swings away from the ladder.

Jesus. I start climbing before a coherent thought has formed in my mind. Up, I have to go up to him.

So that’s what I do. I climb as fast as I can, not looking down, not thinking whether the ladder will slip and fall. A bit higher and his boots are swinging over my head. I reach up, grab one and pull it to the last rung of the ladder. The sole squeaks, but then his other foot finds the rung, too, and he tries to find purchase with his free hand on the wall to steady himself. His fingertips dip into a hole in the metal, and he lets go of the pipe.

Right on time, too. The pipe breaks and he balances on top of the ladder with a hiss. Gulping, I slam a hand behind one of his boots to stop it from sliding off. He needs to climb down, and so do I. The ladder is shaking, and I really hope it won’t sway back and impale us both on the fence.

Ugh.

“Climb down,” I sort of stage-whisper—partly because I’m not sure I have enough breath to say it louder, and partly because I’m scared out of my mind to shout and startle him into falling. “Come down. I’ll help.”

A wobble, and then he lowers one foot to the rung below. I grip his muscular calf, more for reassurance than real support at this point. Wait until he puts the other foot down, too. Reach higher up, holding on to the back of his thigh as he attempts to descend another. He has nowhere to hold on to now, and for a breathless moment of terror I think we’ll both topple back.