Peering over her shoulder, I spot a hunched-over figure hugging his knees. The T-shirt he’s wearing is soaked through and plastered to his chest. Chin-length hair, dark strands either wet or greasy, frame a gaunt face. When the guy gazes up at us, his pupils are so dilated it looks like he doesn’t have any irises. Just two black circles glowing in his eyes.
He starts talking the moment he recognizes Brenna. “You’re here, oh thank God, you’re here,” he babbles. “I knew you would come, I knew you would, because we were together and you were there for me and I was good to you, right? I was good to you?”
“Yeah.” She’s utterly emotionless. “You were great. Come on, Eric, up you go.” She tries to help him to his feet, but he doesn’t budge.
I step forward.
Eric’s eyes widen in fear. “Who’s this?” he demands. “Did you call the cops on me, Bren? I thought—”
“I didn’t call the cops,” she assures him. “This is my friend, okay? He drove because I don’t have a car, and he’s agreed to take you home. Now let us help you up.”
I think he’s about to comply, but then his gaze focuses on someone behind me. Brooks’s timing couldn’t be worse.
“Who’s that!” Eric shouts in a panic. His eyes, with those enormous pupils, dart wildly between me and Brooks. “They’re here to take me away, aren’t they? I’m not going to that fucking rehab, Brenna! I don’t need it!”
“The only place we’re taking you is home,” she says calmly, but the sheer frustration clouding her face reveals that calm is the last thing she’s feeling.
“Promise!”
“I promise.” She leans in to move a hunk of wet hair off his forehead. Her fingers are shaking as she does it. I no longer feel any jealousy toward this guy. Only pity. “We’re going to take you home, okay? But you need to let my friends help you up, because I can’t do it by myself.”
Without a word, I extend a hand toward Brenna’s ex.
After a moment of hesitation, he accepts it.
I haul him to his feet. Once he’s vertical, I discover he’s around my height, six-two, or maybe a bit taller. I suspect he used to be a lot bulkier. Now he’s skinny. Not twig-skinny, but certainly not built like the hockey player he once was.
Brooks is startled as he examines Eric. He flicks a look in my direction, and I see the same pity I’m feeling reflected back at me. My teammate shrugs out of his windbreaker and steps closer to drape it over Eric’s shoulders.
“Here, man, you need to warm up,” Brooks murmurs, and the three of us guide the shivering guy toward the car.
“Westlynn is a ten-minute drive from here,” Brenna tells me when we reach the Mercedes.
This time Brooks gets in the passenger side, and Brenna sits in the backseat with Eric, who spends the entire car ride incessantly thanking us for coming to pick him up. From what I can glean, he went to visit his friend three days ago.
Three days ago.
The revelation makes me think of all those shows and documentaries about drug users. Crystal meth, in particular, is a nasty drug to be addicted to, because apparently the high doesn’t last long at all. Which leads users to take more and more, going on binges in order to maintain the high. And that’s what Eric Royce had been doing, bingeing for seventy-two hours straight. But now he’s crashing. He left his friend’s house to walk home, became completely disoriented, and wound up in a stranger’s bushes.
This was a number one draft pick.
I can’t even wrap my head around that. One minute someone is on top of the world. The next, they’re hitting rock bottom. It’s terrifying how fast and how far people can fall.
“I knew you’d come,” Eric is mumbling. “And now you’re here, and maybe you can give me fifty bucks and—”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Well, that took a turn,” Brooks mutters to me.
“No.” Her sharp tone invites no argument. “I’m not giving you money. I drove almost an hour to—no, not just me. I dragged my friends out in the rain to come find you, to help you, and now you’re hitting me up for money? So you can buy more drugs, which are the reason you’re in this situation to begin with? What is wrong with you?”
He starts to whine. “After everything we’ve been through—”
“Exactly!” she thunders, and both Brooks and I flinch at her vehemence. “After everything we’ve been through, I don’t owe you a thing. I don’t owe you a goddamn thing, Eric.”
“But I still love you,” he whispers.
“Hoo boy,” Weston says under his breath.
I swallow a sigh. I’ve never met a more pathetic person, and I force myself to remember that this man clearly has addiction issues. But from the sounds of it, he’s the one refusing to go to rehab. Refusing to save himself.