Chapter twenty-three
Noah
The cabin of this truck is thick with tension and animosity as I take the exit and ease along the off ramp.
The unexpected dusting of snow makes everything a little slicker, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“Two minutes out,” Mercer reports, staring at the app on his phone.
He was with me when Tytus called.
I couldn’t keep this from him or lie about where I was going. Just like I couldn’t stop him from coming with me.
He had a few drinks earlier. I also suspect he went outside and smoked after we cleaned up the kitchen. He’s not in a greatheadspace—hasn’t been for weeks—but he’s with it enough to be my navigator.
He’s also with it enough to throw random slights and verbal barbs at the man in the back seat.
Tytus has been silent for most of the journey. Every now and then, when I hit a pothole or press down on the brakes, he sucks in a breath, reminding me of the pain he’s in.
He mentioned how he’d traveled with the hockey team today and was in agony because of it, and how he’d taken the maximum dose of pain meds, thinking he was in for the night.
When he admitted he didn’t know what to do, I softened to him a little more.
I’m really fucking glad he called me.
“We’re here.” Mercer throws off his seat belt like he’s going to jump out before I’ve come to a full stop.
“Hang on.” I slow to a crawl, inspecting the parking situation.
The enormous house with flashing lights and extremely loud music radiating from it is ahead on the right, but cars are crammed tightly on both sides of the road, leaving no available street parking as far as I can see.
“Just park in the driveway,” Tytus suggests. “I highly doubt we’ll be here long enough to block anyone in.”
He has a point.
With a nod, I coast into the sloped driveway. When the engine is in park, I unbuckle and twist in my seat, deferring to Tytus. “What’s the plan?”
His eyes go wide with surprise, making him look even younger, though he puts his signature scowl back in place two seconds later. “We don’t need a plan. We just need to get her fucking out of there.”
I clench my jaw and release it a few times, considering.
He’s a hothead, and Mercer is not in a great place mentally or emotionally. The three of us charging in there without some sort of strategy doesn’t seem wise.
“Could you get in trouble?” Mercer asks, his hand already poised on the door handle.
His question was directed at Tytus, but I’m the one to reply.
“What do you mean? How could he get in trouble?”
My best friend raises both eyebrows, as if the answer is obvious. “There could be consequences if he’s seen at a party like this.”
Tytus shifts forward, cracking his neck from side to side, his scowl deepening.
“My parents are dead, so no, professor. I don’t think you can call home and get me in fucking trouble for showing up to a house party.”
“So you have no concerns regarding your coach?” Mercer retorts. “Or Holt University? What about the professional hockey team you’ve been drafted to?”
Tytus’s face flashes in surprise. But then his lips tip up in a smirk. “You keeping tabs on me, prof?”
