Chapter 22 Tytus
Chapter twenty-two
Tytus
I’ve just found a position that’s halfway comfortable when my phone buzzes on my nightstand, startling me. The way my body jolts causes my healing torso to reignite like a dozen matches striking flint.
The pain is white-hot at first, then quickly gives way to a deep internal ache. Grimacing, I plant my hands on the mattress and push myself into a sitting position.
I snag my phone, and when Unknown Caller flashes on the screen, I groan.
Yeah. Not happening.
As I set my phone down and ensure its still charging, nausea rolls through me and my head swims from the exertion.
My pain levels shot up after a day spent traveling with the team. I didn’t do a damn thing during the game except hold a tablet and warm the bench, but fuck if the bus ride there and back didn’t destroy me from the inside out.
I willingly took two pain pills when I got back to the dorm, much to Atty’s surprise. He helped me get settled, then got dressed and headed out to celebrate with the team.
If I thought I could sleep at all without the meds, I wouldn’t have taken them. I’ve weaned myself down to one pill every eight or ten hours, anxious to move past one more barrier keeping me from being on the ice.
My phone vibrates again—same unknown number.
Huffing, I pick it up and answer so I can tell whoever’s fucking calling to leave me the hell alone.
“Hello?”
“Yo. Ty. It’s your boy Bryant from the arena.”
I frown. My boy, he is not.
The background noise is almost as loud as his voice is. The asshole is probably at a party, and maybe even drunk. I’m tempted to hang up and block his number. But Atty went out, and in the off chance he misplaced his phone and Bryant’s calling on his behalf, I stay on the line.
“What’s up, man?” I ask, desperate to cut to the chase.
“Listen, we’re at that big party out in Akron.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and fuck, I just want a little sleep.
“I’m not typically a snitch,” he goes on. “I usually just let the cookie crumble however it’s going to—”
“Just tell him,” a woman hisses in the background.
Now he’s really got my attention.
“What’s going on?”
He groans. “It’s Sawyer.”
My muscles tense, screaming in pain as my body goes rigid and my brain switches to high alert.
Sawyer. Sawyer. Sawyer.
“Is she okay?” The words escape me on their own, a loud buzzing in my ears making it difficult to think.
“She’s okay,” he says. “For now, at least.”
I dig the heel of my hand into my eye socket, trying to stave off the darkness. Fuck.
“But Cam is worried about her. They talked, and if she was just drunk or would tell us what she took—”
I drop the phone, sending it clattering against the floor. Cursing, I scramble off the bed and sink to my hands and knees, ignoring the pain searing through my core.
“Where are you?” I demand when I finally find the phone and bring it up to my ear with a shaking hand.
“I can send you a pin. It’s a huge house party in Akron.”
Annoyance floods me. “I don’t know where that fucking is. I’m not from around here.”
“A few towns over. Thirty minutes from campus.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I crane my neck from side to side, but I’m too panicked to register any of the satisfaction that usually comes with the release. “Where’s Sawyer right now?” I demand. “Do you have eyes on her?”
Bryant makes a noncommittal noise. “Hold on.”
“Hey, Ty,” a feminine voice says. “It’s Cam. I’m so sorry to call you like this. I feel bad, like I’m betraying her by calling—”
“You’re not.” It’s not my promise to make, but I’m desperate to keep her talking.
“I tried calling Atty first. He didn’t answer. I just think someone who knows her better needs to see this.”
I clench my free hand into a fist, gritting my teeth. “See what?”
My phone vibrates against my jaw as the words come out of my mouth.
“I sent a picture.”
In slow motion, I navigate to my messages and tap on the picture from Cam to enlarge it.
Holding my breath, I take it all in. Then I slam my eyes shut, wishing like hell I could scrub the image from my mind. God dammit. The sight only strengthens the pull the darkness has on me.
Baby. No.
Sawyer’s drunk or high. Maybe both. Her clothes are askew, her hair and makeup wrecked, head lolled to the side, and her eyelids droopy.
But it’s the people around her that have my lungs seizing in my chest.
Fucking Keira.
Fucking fuckhead JD.
What the hell are they doing there?
“Cam.” I suck in a ragged breath, willing myself to keep it together.
“I’m here.”
“Do not let her out of your sight. The people she’s with? They’re trouble. They can’t be trusted. I don’t care what they tell you, or even what Sawyer says. She cannot leave with them under any fucking circumstances.”
“Understood,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “Bryant’s here with me. We’ll make sure she doesn’t leave.”
Good.
“I’m on my way.” I heave myself off the floor, ignoring the spots of light dancing in my vision and the flames of agony licking up my torso.
I tap the end button and tug at my hair, hopelessness consuming me.
Sawyer’s self-destructing.
Hands balled into fists, I turn in a circle, scanning the room. I need a jacket. Shoes. My phone. Keys.
Keys. Shit. My heart sinks.
I can’t drive on these pills. I can barely stand upright without swaying.
Even if I could, Atty took the car downtown, swearing he’d get one of the guys to go with him to retrieve it in the morning. By now, he’ll be too drunk to help. Cam said she already tried him and he didn’t answer.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
My phone vibrates in my hand once more.
Another message from Cam. This time, it’s a video.
I swallow down the bile threatening to burn up my esophagus. If Cam sent it, it has to be important.
It’s a quick clip.
Six seconds. Maybe seven.
Like in the photo, Sawyer is sandwiched between the useless excuses for humans I thought she left behind in Montreal.
Except the video makes everything more real.
Sawyer’s movements are languid and uncoordinated.
JD has his fucking hands all over my girl.
Then there’s Keira. She’s grinding against Sawyer’s front, dragging her hands up and down Sawyer’s body.
They’re lingering at the hem of her pushed-up skirt when the video cuts out.
I have to get there. Right fucking now.
I don’t have time to wait for a rideshare, and I don’t have time to walk the halls in hopes of finding someone who isn’t out at eleven thirty on a weekend and might be willing to give me a ride.
Desperately—hopelessly—I tug on the ends of my hair and scan my room once more.
When I pass over the half-eaten pumpkin pie Noah Henry brought by last week, I stop.
Fucking fuck.
He’ll answer.
He put his fucking number in my phone already.
The only thing standing in the way of me getting Sawyer away from that party is me.
Resigned, I close my eyes and blow out a hard breath. Then I scroll through my contacts, select Noah Henry’s name, and make the damn call.