No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  I wish I could call Ross, but I don’t have his phone number. Never thought about getting it, keeping in touch. If Ed and his asshole buddies passed through, I might ask them if they’ve seen him—“Have you happened to beat up Ross today guys? Been searching for him”—but they don’t come by.

  And I don’t know who else might know Ross well enough to ask. Which is nuts. It’s such a small town everyone knows everyone, but he’s always kept mostly to himself. I’m only realizing it now, thinking back. The only people I’d say spent time with him were the garage mechanics where he spent his afternoons and worked sometimes growing up, but now the garage is closed and they’ve all scattered to other towns and cities.

  A lone wolf, and the thought squeezes my chest.

  God, Luna. Try to keep a cool head. Try to keep some mental distance, even if you can’t help but care. Remember to safeguard your heart.

  The place is so busy it takes my mind off Ross and the mess in my head for a while. As I run to and fro, between the kitchen and the tables, waving Dena goodbye when she takes off, as I glance at all the happy, flushed faces, I think of my dad, and Josh.

  And Ross.

  Always back to Ross.

  As my shift winds to an end and the customers file out, talking among themselves and laughing, as I wipe down the tables and counter and mop the floor while the cook finishes up in the kitchen, he’s all I can think about. My time-out is over.

  The bad feeling is back, a knot of tension inside me.

  I open the kitchen door to take out the trash and yelp when something small and furry brushes by my leg.

  “Ohmygod.” The furry thing whines, then barks, a laugh-like sound, and I know who that is. “Buddy?”

  He barks again, and pants, tongue lolling, while I fish some left-over burger from one of the trash bags and throw it at him. He sniffs at it, growls a little, and I leave him to it as I open the dumpster and throw the trash inside.

  When I return, I find he hasn’t touched the burger piece.

  “Not hungry? Are you sick?”

  He comes to sniff the hand I put down, and licks his chops.

  “You know, I’d never seen you around before Ross and I started talking. Weird, huh? Who are you, Buddy? An old soul?”

  The moment I say it, a shiver goes through me. And then I giggle nervously, because, seriously, Luna? What, you believe in reincarnation now? That’s new.

  An idea strikes me and I crouch down. “Hey, Buddy, you know how you led me to Ross once before? Think you can take me to him tonight?”

  “Everything okay out there?” The cook pokes his head out the diner backdoor. “Who you talking to?”

  “Just a stray dog.”

  The cook shakes his head and withdraws.

  “Buddy?”

  He sits back and cocks his small head at me, stiff ears twitching. He’s watching me, soulful brown eyes meeting mine.

  Then he stands up on all fours and trots off.

  “Buddy! Come back here.”

  He tosses me a look and seems to be winking at me. This dog... Infuriating, just like his human friend.

  “Buddy, wait for me!”

  “Your purse!” the cook shouts after me, and I curse inwardly. I turn back to get my stuff, and of course the doggy doesn’t wait for me.

  Where did he go?

  So stupid, thinking he understood and will lead me to Ross. Right? I start down the main street, past shuttered stores and a few houses, past the bank and the ice cream parlor.

  So much for Buddy’s old soul. He didn’t wait for me, didn’t miraculously understand my goal and rushed to my aid. Strange animal. Didn’t even want to eat. I wonder what he was doing behind the diner.

  I pass by Jasper’s Garage, and it’s dark and closed, same as it was when I went looking for Ross earlier today. Of all the places he could be, this is the most likely.

  I’ve stopped before I realize what I’m doing. He should be here—unless he’s gone back to his house, and... the padlock is open.

  I push the gate and it swings open. Huh. Walking inside, I have to swallow past a knot of apprehension. The place feels unfamiliar in the dark and even when I use my cell phone to throw some light around, it still makes me nervous. It’s so quiet. Something slithers out of sight, something skitters, and I swallow a gasp.

  Keep your cool, I instruct myself sternly. It’s just an empty garage. You’ve been here before. Heck, last time Ross made you come with his hand. Nothing sinister here.

  And... I was right. It is empty. I walk about, my phone illuminating a car with the engine exposed, Ross’s bike, a dusty little office, empty bays and abandoned tools.

  Ross isn’t here.

  Disappointment swamps me, and I almost groan, my stomach knotting up more. Maybe I’m sick. Maybe the sandwich I ate at the diner earlier was off. It makes more sense than this sense of foreboding, of time running out.

  A bark all but gives me a heart attack. A very familiar, laugh-like bark.

  “Buddy? Where are you? Come here.”

  The doggy is suddenly there, trotting about, investigating, sniffing at corners, stains on the floor, an abandoned toolkit.

  “Buddy, Ross isn’t here. Please, take me to Ross. Come on.”

  But he just keeps going in circles.

  I want to grab him and shake him. “Stop it, you’re making me dizzy. What are you doing?”

  I don’t know why I’m expecting an answer, and I almost turn around and head out, when I realize something.

  He’s not just going in circles. No, it’s a specific circle, in front of a ladder. He whines when I approach, looks up at me and wags his tail.

  A ladder leading to an open trapdoor in the ceiling.

  Oh my God.

  I remember seeing Ross on the roof once before. On the edge. Watching from the outside, where Buddy led me. I remember my fear.

  “Good dog,” I whisper, my lips numb, and start to climb.

  ***

  “Ross?” I call out softly as I emerge from the trapdoor straight to the tin roof. “Are you here?”

  The darkening sky stretches overhead, studded with stars, the full moon like a lantern, shedding silvery light. I don’t see him until I’m standing on the roof and turn around.

  He’s a tall shadow, his back to me, a cut-out against the gathering night. He’s not smoking this time, at least no embers seem to glimmer and no smoke wreathes him as he stands there, looking out at the town.

  He turns toward me, and I feel his gaze, surprised and hot, sliding over me. He has a bottle in his hand, his hair a ghostly halo on top of his head. A silver crown.

  In the pooling shine of the moon, I think I see his mouth curving into a faint smile, eyes lighting up.

  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.

  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.

  But he manages to awkwardly bend and hold on to the top of the ladder—with one hand. The other is sort of hanging limp at his side, twitching.

  No time to worry about that now, though. I may have played the role of Wonder Girl for a bright instant, driven by desperation and fear, but the adrenaline is starting to make me shaky, my energy ebbing.

  I steady him as he climbs lower, then I start climbing down, too, to keep him from stepping on my hands or kicking my head. We’ve made it so far, against all odds, better not jinx it.

  Slowly, one rung at a time, we go down. I’m acutely, painfully aware of his every movement, my hand always ready to grab at him, keep him on the ladder. He’s slower than me, and I can hear his ragged breathing.

  Light-headed, my limbs strangely heavy and uncooperative, I finally step down and find solid earth. I stumble, unprepared, unable to believe I’ve made it down in one piece.

  And then Ross staggers down and I catch him by the hips. My grip, however, is not enough to keep him on his feet. His legs buckle and he goes down on his knees, dragging me down with him. I let it happen, throwing my arms around him, holding on to him. He’s shaking so hard I can feel it in my bones. His teeth are chattering.

  But he’s alive, he’s here.

  “I’ve got you,” I whisper in his ear, and for the first time in a long while, I’m not lying to myself, not pretending one thing or the other.

  It’s the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ross

  It’s kind of dark. I can’t make sense of anything. Time is made up of jumps and long stretches of nothingness.

  I was on the roof drinking�
�then falling, hanging from my fingertips for dear fucking life and that part lasted an eternity.

  Now I’m on my knees on hard-packed earth, struggling to draw a single breath, my chest compressed and aching, my right hand and arm burning.

  And I have a girl wound around me like a ribbon, her curls tickling my nose, her scent subtle and sweet, yet stronger than any other on the humid night air.

  That scent, those curls, the knowledge that this is Luna, my girl, is the only thing finally penetrating the steel fist of panic around my chest, loosening it until I can breathe.

  Bringing up my only responsive arm, I wrap it clumsily around her, feeling her back heave with each inhalation. It’s reassuring—that we’re still both breathing.

  Bewildering, too. For a moment there I’d really thought that was it. The end. I’d accepted it, too. Was ready to release my hold and just fall.

  She’s muttering something and I can’t make it out, but that’s okay. the sound of her voice is calming, grounding. After a while I realize she’s rocking me a little, rocking us, back and forth.

  And that she’s whispering my name.

  It should mean something, all this. Surviving, her being there, her arms around me, it should and could mean so much, but for a long while I’m too drained and spent to think or feel anything. Too numb to comprehend, or do anything else but hold on to her.

  As the shock slowly starts to wear off, I become aware of more stinging, burning aches, old and new. They remind me that before I fell off a roof, I was caught up in a street fight and I’m bruised all over. I’m also woozy, my brain filled with cotton balls, and I remember the amount of booze I’ve consumed since last night. You could probably light me up with a single match.

  That seems kinda funny, and I shake with silent laughter, then grunt when that jostles my burning ribs.

  “Where’s Buddy?” Luna asks softly, and I blink, stilling.

  “Buddy?” I have the feeling I am missing something—okay, scratch that, missing whole episodes in the series that is my fucking life. “Why?”