Chapter 54 Tytus
Chapter fifty-four
Tytus
Headphones around my neck, I hold my breath, my ears pricking against the silence. I swore I heard a noise, despite the quality of Mercer’s gear.
For several seconds, I remain like that. Yet the quiet persists.
Giving up, I shift and prepare to get back to work. Before I can cover my ears again, though, my phone vibrates beside me on the bed. Mercer lent me a charger last night, thankfully.
I grin when Sawyer’s picture illuminates my lock screen.
“Hey, mon ange.” I ease the laptop off my lap and stretch my neck from side to side.
“Ty, there’s been an accident. It’s Mercer.”
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “What happened?” I demand, already off the bed and snagging my hoodie. “Where is he?”
“He fell. Or the porch collapsed? I don’t know for sure. He told me to tell you to stay inside.”
A grunt escapes me. Stay inside? Fuck that.
“Is he hurt?” I tap the speaker button on my phone screen and shove my feet into my shoes.
Her response is a broken sob.
My gut plummets. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re with Noah, right?”
“Yes.” She sniffles. “We’re on our way back right now.”
“Okay, I’ll check on him.”
“Ty, no!” She sucks in a shuddering breath. “You could get hurt, too.”
So what? I’m supposed to just let him suffer alone? As I yank the front door open, I say, “I’ll call you back if anything changes—”
“Tytus Phineas Tremblay,” she shouts, “don’t you dare hang up on me!”
Phone still in hand, I survey the enormous hole in the porch floor. From what I can tell, the floorboards rotted through on one side, breaking off pretty cleanly.
Sticking near the house, I inch closer. When I get a look inside the hole and see the outline of the professor’s body, cold dread washes over me.
He’s flat on his back, covered in debris. One arm is twisted over his head. Fuck. That looks like it hurts.
A groan rises from the hole, but he doesn’t speak otherwise. Or move.
“I see him,” I tell Sawyer. “I think he’s really hurt.” Heart rate picking up, I lean a little farther forward. “Mercer. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he groans again, clearly in pain.
“Can you sit up? Did you hit your head?”
“Don’t come any closer,” he says, his voice rough, his words choppy. “The porch isn’t structurally sound. I don’t want you falling and getting hurt.”
A scoff escapes me. He’s worried about me? He’s the one who just fell through the porch boards.
“Answer me, prof. Can you sit up?”
“No,” he sighs. “My arm’s pinned. And the angle… I can’t even take a deep breath without almost blacking out.”
Fuckin’ A.
I take half a step closer and survey him again. From here, the beam pinning his arm looks massive. I’d bet anything he dislocated his shoulder. If he moves the wrong way or stays like that for too long, he could make it worse.
Fuck.
A sense of helplessness shrouds me as I press my back into the side of the house. “Sawyer, how long until you guys are back?”
“Noah says we’re still at least fifteen minutes out. The roads are slick, but he’s doing his best.”
That’s too long.
Too long to be lying alone in the dark. Too long to have to endure that level of pain.
“Merce,” I call down. “I’m going back inside to find a flashlight. I’ll be right back, then I’m coming down.”
He shouts an objection, but I’m already making a hasty retreat.
“I’m not hanging up, but I’m putting you in my pocket,” I tell Sawyer.
Before she can respond, I stash the device. Better she doesn’t have a chance to try to talk some sense into me.
I’ve always been reactive. Despite all the changes in my life recently, that remains the same. I’m driven by the urge to make this better for him in any way I can.
In the kitchen, I dig a flashlight out of the junk drawer I discovered the other day. When I get back to the foyer, I put on a winter coat, then I dip into the living room to grab two throw pillows off the couch.
Once I’m back outside, I assess the hole again, considering the best angle to approach.
The drop’s not that far down. Maybe a meter. And the wood closer to the house appears stable. There’s a good chance I can hang on to the windowsill and lower myself into the hole.
My still healing intercostal muscles seize up at the thought.
This is going to hurt.
“I’m throwing a few pillows down first,” I announce.
“Tytus, don’t you dare come any closer. It’s dark and cramped down here,” Mercer grits out. “My arm is already wrecked, and you won’t be able to help with your injuries.”
I shake my head. “I can’t lift you out by myself, but I might be able to get that beam off your arm,” I tell him. “Plus, if I’m down there, you won’t be alone.”
Crouching, I grit my teeth, grip on to the ledge of the window at my left, and lower down.