Chapter 8 Mercer
Chapter eight
Mercer
“He recorded us?”
I remain on my knees as I help Sawyer ease down to the floor to join me.
She sits cross-legged, her back to the door, her head hanging, causing her pretty copper hair to form a curtain around her face.
With a shaky hand, I tuck one section behind her ear.
She startles on contact but then lowers her shoulders from her ears and turns her face to sink into my touch.
As her warmth seeps into my skin, relief courses through me and hope sparks in my chest.
She’s quiet for another few seconds—somber, as if she’s finally settling down.
With a fortifying breath, she explains. “Tytus filmed us on Saturday night. He tried to send the video somewhere, but it was intercepted by the University’s IT department. That’s why the dean wanted to see me this morning.”
Every word triggers a new level of fury.
That little fucking shithead. His actions are the definition of gross, inappropriate behavior.
Unease swirls in my stomach. “Why in the world wouldn’t Stalworth contact me immediately?”
Sawyer hiccups, glancing at me quickly, then looking down again. “The dean thought Tytus was the man in the video.”
Confusion ripples through me. “Why would—”
Sawyer closes her eyes and rests her head against the door, drained and utterly defeated. “Because I was wearing Ty’s jersey.”
Jesus H.
“The video is dark and grainy. You only see us from the back. My hair is a dead giveaway.”
Her hair. The beautiful, fiery hair I love so much.
“And in the screenshot the dean showed me, only your back is visible. Your dark hair and your dress shirt.”
“Which every hockey player there was also wearing after the game,” I surmise.
“Exactly.”
Heavy shame and a sense of crushing responsibility infiltrate my mind. All her tears, all this heartache—it’s all because of me.
Her face screws up as fresh tears well in her eyes. “There’s more. He…”
Her cheeks turn crimson as she abuses her bottom lip, her focus flitting around the room.
“Just say it, sweetheart.”
Zeroing in on the desk rather than me, she says, “The video he sent didn’t have any sound. But Ty made sure I knew that in the original recording, I say your name seven times.”
He made sure.
He watched it, probably more than once, and he counted how many times she said my name.
I’m going to fucking kill that boy.
Though rage consumes me, urging me to storm out of here and hunt Tytus down, I keep my tone low. “He’s a psychopath.”
“No,” she cries, her eyes welling again. “Don’t say that.”
I cradle her hand in mine. “Sweetheart, I know you care for him, and he’s your brother’s friend—”
“He’s my best friend, too,” she interjects.
I grit my teeth until a distinct popping sound concerns me enough to make me stop.
“Friends don’t record friends getting fucked and then use the footage as blackmail,” I hiss.
Fresh, fat tears fall down her face.
God dammit. The last thing I want is to make her feel worse. But what this boy has done is disgusting.
I can’t blame him for hating me after the way I humiliated Sawyer on the first day of class. I hate myself for it, too, and I deeply regret putting her on blast in front of the class. I’ve talked to my therapist about the incident at length, though I still need to properly apologize to her.
So I understand if he has beef with me. But I don’t understand why he’d so viciously hurt her in the process.
“Why would he blackmail you?”
She swipes away the tears and sighs in a way that sounds like the weight of the world is pressing against her lungs.
“Ty and I… I don’t know how to explain it.” She licks her lips, studying the floor in front of her. “We’ve always been in each other’s orbits, but just out of reach.”
She peeks up through her lashes, her green eyes glimmering with tears that just won’t end. I stay quiet but nod, willing her to continue.
“We’ve almost hooked up several times.” With her lip caught between her teeth, she surveys my face like she’s trying to gauge my reaction.
I cup her jaw and use my thumb to free the precious lip from its prison.
“Did you date?” I ask, resolved to keep my composure despite the way my insides are twisting.
She shakes her head.
“Were you or are you sleeping with him?”
Despite the connection I share with this woman, we hadn’t labeled our relationship until the conversation before the hockey game on Saturday night.
If she was sleeping with him before that or had a casual arrangement—
“Never,” she whispers.
A gust of air whooshes from my lungs and I’m hit with an instant wave of relief.
It’s one thing to share her with Noah. It’s another entirely to worry that she may be hooking up with a man willing to cause her extensive emotional damage.
I press my fingers into my temples and tip my head from side to side. “Let me get this straight. This boy, whom you’ve known for years yet never dated, and also have never slept with, thinks he has some claim on you? And that’s why he’s blackmailing you?”
She swallows, her face etched with concern. “In his defense, I’ve always felt like I have a claim on him, too.”
I bite back a scoff. As if that justifies his behavior. “And what exactly is the purpose of the blackmail?”
She huffs out a humorless laugh. “He wants you and me to end things. And he told the dean that he and I are married.”
I guffaw, my head dropped back. Way to bury the fucking lede.
Married? The very idea is preposterous. There’s no way Stalworth would fall for that.
“How did we go from revenge porn to marriage?” I demand.
Another sigh.
We’re sitting so close our knees are touching, but it’s not enough.
I want to pull her into me. I want to hold her right here, right now. I want to cancel the rest of the day’s plans and take her back to my condo where I can keep her tucked away safely in my bed.
“The marriage bit was fast thinking on Ty’s part. The dean insinuated that I was engaging in inappropriate behavior with a student and was prepared to fire and expel me.”
Pain radiates through my chest. How does this keep getting worse?
“But Tytus insisted we had a ‘relationship that trumped a typical student-teacher dynamic,’” she says, using air quotes. “And Stalworth seemed to buy the story.”
Spineless bastard.
Self-doubt tickles up my spine. It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just that I used to be a very poor judge of character. There was a time—years, in fact—where I went to great lengths to change the narrative and gaslight myself into believing a lie.
Despite the absurdity of the idea, I grit my teeth and ask her directly for clarification.
“Sweetheart, I hate that I even have to ask this, but please tell me you’re not married.”
“No,” she cries out, tugging on the ends of her hair. “We’re not married. We’ve never even kissed. He blindsided me,” she seethes, her red eyes watery again. “And now he wants me to play along.” A sigh escapes her. “Afterward, he cornered me to tell me as much.”
My anxiety spikes, the blood rushing through my body so intense I can feel my pulse in every limb.
“What do you mean, he cornered you?”
She casts her gaze down to the carpet, her voice quieter, her tone one of distress.
“He cornered me near the vending machines and told me that what you and I have is done. That this wasn’t a game to him anymore.
He said he expected me to act like his wife, and that if I didn’t, he’d send Stalworth the video with sound. ”
Black spots dance in my periphery. “He’s mental.”
She grimaces at the insult. “He’s just…” She sighs. “He’s just Tytus.”
As if that means anything to me. As if it’s an excuse for his unhinged behavior.
“You don’t know what we’ve been through,” she adds.
I scoot a fraction closer. “So tell me.”
She shakes her head, eyes welling once more.
“I can’t.” She swipes at the tears. “Please, don’t ask again.
Just believe me when I say I can’t. Not because I don’t want to or because I don’t trust you.
I just—” She hiccups and sniffs, a fresh wave of grief crushing her from the inside as steady tears flow down her cheeks once again. “I just can’t.”
Jesus H. What have they been through, the pair of them? What could possibly be so dark, so insidious, that she shuts down completely and can’t even think of it without sobbing?
If the defeat in her expression is any indication, I’ve already lost.
But I won’t accept it. Not without fighting like hell for what I want.
“This isn’t right,” I say, reining in my fury, keeping my words even. “I don’t give a shit if he goes to the dean or tries to get me fired.”
Her head snaps up at that declaration. “No. I refuse to let that happen.”
“I refuse to cower to revenge porn and blackmail,” I snap back.
“Mercer,” she pleads, “you don’t understand.”
Because she won’t help me understand. Not that there is anything she could do or say to make me sympathize with the boy she’s defending.
“There would be consequences,” she whispers. “I can’t let you get fired because of me.”
Teeth gritted, I grip her chin and tip her head up, forcing her to meet my gaze. “I’m not going to fucking lose you because of him.”
She swallows thickly, bottom lip trembling.
“If you get fired, I’m out of a job. My work visa could be revoked.”
Fuck.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“You have your position at the ice arena,” I remind her.
“This graduate assistantship is the position I put on my application. I’ll have to notify them if that changes, and there’s no guarantee they’ll let me stay.”
It’s a legitimate concern.
I tip my head back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. I was so concerned about quelling Sawyer’s anguish that the gravity of the situation hasn’t really begun to sink in until now.
“This isn’t right,” I choke out. “I refuse to cower to this boy. I’ll go to the dean myself.”
“Mercer,” she says, her voice small and defeated. “It’s already done. There’s no need for you to put your job at risk. Even if they only asked you to take administrative leave, it could put the orchard project in jeopardy.”
Noah’s face flashes through my mind.
Fuck.
I hadn’t even considered Noah.
The last thing he needs is to lose this woman. He’s lost enough, and I refuse to add to his burden.
With a frustrated sigh, I rise and pace across the office to the bookshelves and back.
There’s got to be a solution here.
What haven’t we considered?
“I have to go soon.” Sawyer gingerly rises from the floor, dusting herself off.
My heart stutters. Is she serious? Like hell am I letting her out of this office without a plan.
“Sweetheart, this isn’t okay.”
“I know,” she admits, her shoulders slumped. “But it is what it is.”
“I refuse to accept that. Tell me what to do,” I demand as I stride to her.
“I—” She heaves out a huge sigh. “Just give me a little space. The whole marriage charade won’t last. It can’t. Ty lives with my brother, and he can’t play this game in front of him. Once he cools off, I’ll talk him down and we’ll go from there.”
I shake my head. “That’s not direct enough.”
“Mercer,” she pleads. “I’ve known Ty since we were kids.
He’s intense, but I can talk sense into him.
First I have to let him feel all the emotions that came up when he saw us together.
Then I’ll be able to reason with him and convince him to drop the blackmail bit.
He’ll get over this. Just give me time. It’ll pass. ”
Time.
Distance.
No.
“I won’t stay away from you.”
Sawyer’s bottom lip quivers as she toys with the hem of her cardigan. “It’s not like we won’t see each other. We have our meeting on Wednesday,” she reminds me with a pathetic impression of a smile. “Plus there’s a site visit on Thursday afternoon.”
“That’s not enough.”
I sound like a petulant child. But the idea of intentional space makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I’ve given someone space before. I know what it feels like to accept scraps of attention. I know firsthand how those scraps transform into shrapnel.
Space is the fastest way to infect everything good and real that’s been blossoming between us these past few weeks.
“It’s not enough,” I repeat, despondent.
With a sad shrug, she offers me a watery smile and reaches for the door. “It’s going to have to be.”