The coolness to my right draws my face out of Wyatt’s neck. Time is passing in a strange pattern of fast and slow. “Where’d Isaac go?” I search the club, but it’s useless with the black lights and my fuzzy brain.
“Off with Aman.” His tone is annoyed. He tilts his beer to his lips around the side of me.
I climb off him and rub my head, disoriented. “I wanna talk to him.”
He shrugs and stands. With his beer in one hand, he links our fingers together. Before we leave the table, he takes out a Vicodin for each of us and passes one to me. He leads me through the crowd. We wander for a few minutes without any luck. I squeeze his hand a little tighter. Unease dogs me, but I don’t know if it’s the drugs or something else. As we take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, Wyatt practically carries me. We go around the corner at the top, and there’s a small room to the right I’d forgotten about. Wyatt and Isaac disappeared in there the very first time we came here, but I never saw either of them go back. “What’s in here?” I ask as we walk through the door.
He hesitates, and then says, “Highly addictive and lethal shit. Heroin, shooting coke directly into the vein, morphine, fentanyl . . . We agreed not to go in here anymore when you were with us.” This room isn’t any better lit, and Wyatt narrows his eyes, searching the darkness. Tension radiates off him as he spots two people in the far corner. We’re almost upon them when I realize it’s Aman and Isaac, fighting in hushed voices.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Wyatt asks as we approach.
Isaac shoots Aman a warning glare and turns to Wyatt with a wide smile. “Taking in the view.” Even in the darkness, there’s something wild in Isaac’s glittering eyes.
“That’s bullshit. There’s no fucking view here,” Wyatt says. “What’s up with you lately?”
My hand clutches his, but I’m focused on Aman, who is staring at Isaac. “Is something going on between you two?” The fuzziness clears as my brain ticks through their body language. Close talking, Isaac’s fingers brushing Aman’s hand, the way they sat next to each other in the booth earlier, sparks jumping in the dark.
Aman stiffens and shakes his head. “I’m out, man.”
“Two brown brothers can’t hang out without you thinking it’s something shady?” Isaac directs his question at me, but he’s still watching Aman leave the room.
“Not shady.” I search for the right word, and I settle on one. “Intimate. You—you looked couple-ish.”
When I glance at Wyatt, he doesn’t seem surprised.
“It’s nothing. Nothing.” Isaac takes out his pills and pops two benzos into his mouth.
Isaac has dated women, at least publicly—at nightclubs and other events, when the paparazzi were present. None of them have stayed at our house.
“Brown brother’s got a thing for brown brothers.” Isaac pops another pill, but I can’t tell what it is. He mixes all the time, but this is a lot, even for him. “A brown gay guy? One more reason for people in this business to shun me.”
“I never told Ellie,” Wyatt says. “Wasn’t my place.”
His sexual orientation is a deeply personal thing, but I’ve been around him for three years now. I’m not sure why Isaac would think I’d care about his sexuality or that I wouldn’t keep it a secret if that’s what he needed. The point of these mythical relationships when Wyatt knew the truth is beyond me.
“Ellie was never one of the people I was hiding from,” Isaac says. “The person I was hiding from.”
Then it clicks and I press a hand to my forehead. “Your dad.” Kabir made many veiled comments about gay people in Los Angeles and in the film industry. His homophobia surprised me.
“Ding, ding, ding.” Isaac points at me. “Ellie Cooper for the win. You’ve got a winner there, Wyatt. You’re gonna need to hold on tight. She sees through our bullshit.”
“That’s what this shit’s been about the last couple of weeks?” Wyatt gathers me closer to his side. “You’re with Aman, and you’ll never get to tell your dad the truth?”
Isaac stares at his feet and then takes his pill bottle out of his pocket again. He toys with the container, moving it from hand to hand. He narrows his eyes at Wyatt, calculating, and then he turns to me and says, “I should have gone after Phil Leeman when he tried to assault you. I’m sorry I only picked you up and didn’t do anything about it.”
“Oh, Isaac.” Such a long time ago now, and Wyatt’s split knuckles made sure no one ever tried anything again.
“No, I should have, Ellie.” He holds up his hand. “I should have. That’s always been my problem. I don’t understand how to speak up for myself.”
Wyatt glances at me, and my own confusion is mirrored in his face.
Isaac pops open his bottle and shoves another pill in his mouth. An oxy, maybe. I step forward. He’s taking too many. I can’t count, but that has to be too many. My brain isn’t working right.
“All those years we were kids. I never stood up for myself,” Isaac says.
“What are you talking about? With who?” Wyatt’s grip on my hip tightens.
Isaac paces at the back of the small room. There are other people sprawled around, but they’re half asleep or too busy shooting up to notice we’re here.
“I bet it never happened to you. I’ve wondered so many times. But you’re Wyatt Burgess, right? Someone hits you, you hit back twice as hard.” Isaac releases an unsteady chuckle.
“Someone hit you?” Wyatt’s confusion deepens.
“I don’t—I don’t think he means hit.” Through the haze, ideas form in my head. I rub my forehead, trying to find clarity.
“Your girl, man. Short Stuff, you’re on fire.” Isaac points at me, and his grin is crooked, as though the muscles aren’t working. “I didn’t think they’d have tried anything with you.” He grabs the back of his neck and stops pacing for a moment. “Why did I let them? I was old enough to realize what they were doing was wrong. I knew it. I did. But I . . . every time it happened, I froze. I just—I couldn’t move.”
Wyatt’s expression is a mixture of frustration and confusion. He can’t put the pieces together. Isaac’s Phil Leeman happened a long time ago.
I move to stand in front of Isaac, and I take his face in my hands. “You were a kid. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” I say. “Even though you understood what they were doing was wrong, you were just a kid.”
“I’ve never told anyone. Never.” Isaac’s eyes are locked with mine. “Who would I tell? I wanted to get into this business. I begged my parents to take me to auditions. They gave up their jobs to follow me around. But the fame wasn’t enough for what they took.” Anguish is written large across his expressive face. “This town. This business. It’s not meant for a kid.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say again.
“Isaac, someone . . .” Wyatt’s voice trails off, and he rubs my back. “Molested you?”
“Not even once?” Isaac seeks out Wyatt. “No one tried it even once?”
“I had no idea,” he says. “If I’d known . . .”
Scoffing, Isaac breaks free from me and paces again. “What would you have done? Huh? What, did I have some sign on me? Is there something about me that says people can do those things and I won’t say anything? I’ll just take it?” He points at himself and then pounds a fist into his chest.
My head swims from Isaac’s revelations. The right words are somewhere, and I need to find them.
“I’ve hated that I like men touching me. My desire was disgusting. I was disgusting. My dad would think I was disgusting.” Tears litter Isaac’s face.
“I don’t.” My brain isn’t functioning. “No, Isaac. It’s not you—”
“You’re my brother, man. I love you. You shoulda told me. I would have protected you.” Wyatt’s voice is raspy, like he’s on the verge of crying. “I woulda stopped it. Whatever I had to do. I would have done something.”
“How co
uld I tell you that? Then you’d know.” Isaac stops pacing and stares at him. “Then you’d realize I was weak.”
Wyatt shakes his head, and I grab his hand to squeeze it. Whatever is going on with Isaac, his words are starting to slur. That’s not unusual, but he popped so many benzos and OxyContin while we were talking. I can’t calculate how much is too much.
“What happened to you wasn’t weakness,” Wyatt says. “You were a kid. They were adults, and they took advantage of you. Used their power and status against you. We were kids.”
“But it didn’t happen to you,” Isaac says. “It happened to me. For years.” Shaking his head, Isaac uses both hands to wipe his cheeks. He sniffs. “Why am I telling you this? I’m so fucked up right now. I gotta go. I gotta get out of here.”
Wyatt tries to grab his arm, but Isaac shoves past us. We stampede down the stairs, with Wyatt calling Isaac’s name—pleading at first, and then pissed off. Isaac moves much faster than we can. Dread fills my stomach, and acid bubbles into my throat.
Once we’re outside the club, Wyatt grabs Isaac’s arm and drags him to a stop. A small crowd gathers around us, and unease builds in me again. We shouldn’t be doing this here. “Isaac,” I say. “Let’s go back inside. Drink some water. Get off this high.”
“I don’t feel well.” In the lights from the street, a sheen of sweat glistens, and his lips don’t really move when he says the words.
“What’d did you take in that room?” Wyatt scans Isaac, concern etched into his features.
On top of the pills we watched him inhale, he did coke with me and Wyatt, and he might have done something else in that room with Aman before we arrived. My heart contracts at the implication. “Let’s get some water and food,” I say.
Isaac chuckles and then it’s as though he’s a marionette whose strings have been cut. He collapses onto the ground in a puddle. The crowd gasps, and I rush to Isaac’s side. As soon as I reach him, the convulsions start, his body jerking and contorting in ways a person shouldn’t move.
There are so many people gathered around us, a sea of faces. Everyone is talking, or calling out to us, and there are people who are already crying. Why the fuck are they crying? They need to do something.
“Call 9-1-1!” Wyatt hollers into the crowd, grasping Isaac’s head, trying to keep it cradled in his lap.
I fumble in my pocket for my phone. My fingers are too fat and useless to type in the numbers, and I have to erase them and start again.
“Stay with me, man,” Wyatt says when Isaac’s eyes roll back in his head.
While I try to work my phone, I scan the crowd for anyone. “Is there a doctor here?” My mom would know what to do, how to help. We just need someone to help.
A man approaches from the side. His shirt is emblazoned with Club Cobra. “I have 9-1-1 on the phone. What’s the problem?”
“Overdose,” Wyatt says through clenched teeth. “Cocaine, heroin, prescription pills.” He’s so focused on Isaac, I’m surprised he even knows to answer.
A guy comes close with his camera held out, clearly taking a photo or video, but I’m too dazed to say anything. When we don’t wave off the first person, others gather closer, and the scrutiny is claustrophobia-inducing. The thumping techno music streams out the front door of the club to the crowd waiting to get in, those passing us to go home, and those who followed us out, eager for a celebrity encounter.
The seizure goes on forever, with Wyatt trying to keep Isaac’s head from banging against the concrete sidewalk. Finally, he stills. I stare at the crowd, thick with strangers, and I wonder why no one has stepped forward to help. There must be someone who can help. “Is there a doctor?” I cry.
“He doesn’t have a pulse.” Panic vibrates off Wyatt. “Ellie, Ellie. Can you find a pulse?”
On my knees, I fumble at his neck and then his wrist, but it doesn’t matter how hard I press, I can’t feel anything. The crowd around us seems to gather closer, but none of them are helping.
Sirens build in the distance. People in the crowd are praying and crying. Their cries of terror echo the sensation building in me.
“Someone help us,” I whisper.
There has to be a pulse somewhere, and I search again. People have a pulse, otherwise they’re . . . His lips take on a blueish tinge. No, no, no, no, no.
Wyatt shifts to Isaac’s chest and starts compressions. “You need to breathe into his mouth, Ellie.” He doesn’t break his frantic pace.
There are so many people around us that it’s suffocating. Phones are out, cameras are snapping, and I dread what they’re recording, what will be plastered across the news tomorrow.
When Wyatt pauses, I breathe into Isaac’s mouth and his chest rises. “Come on, Isaac,” he says. “Stay with us. Come on.” He pushes hard and fast, and I wonder where he learned CPR.
The sirens are on top of us now, but we keep going. Someone is yelling, trying to organize the crowd, but it’s thick with resistance. Everyone wants their piece.
When the paramedics appear through the crush of bodies, they push Wyatt off Isaac’s chest to make him to stop. Wyatt wobbles as he tries to stand, and people in the crowd stumble with him, trying to move out of the way, but there’s so many of them it’s impossible. The paramedics fire questions at him about the possible drug combinations while they take vitals and confirm he’s in cardiac arrest, load him onto the gurney, and rush him into the ambulance.
Kyle pushes through the crowd, and he’s aided by Club Cobra bouncers who help guide us to the waiting car. Wyatt slides in, but he avoids eye contact. He stares out the window. “He’s going to be fine,” he says as we drive to the hospital. “He’s tough. He’ll pull through. He won’t die.”
My heart beats hard in my chest, and Wyatt’s mantra is almost drowned out. If Isaac dies . . . He can’t die. He’s invincible. He’s taken a lot more drugs than he did tonight. My memory flashes with the oxy and benzos Isaac took as we talked. So many.
We arrive at the hospital and rush through the emergency doors. At the threshold, we’re greeted by a doctor who takes us to a curtained room. Behind the curtain there needs to be a smiling Isaac. I’ll tell him he has to start taking better care of himself. I’ll tell him I love him. I’ll tell him he doesn’t have to abuse drugs anymore. He can be saved. We’ll save him.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor stands in front of the curtain. “He went into cardiac arrest due to the drug combinations in his system. We won’t have the toxicology report for a few weeks, but based on what we know, opioids, stimulants, and alcohol played major factors. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t get him back.”
Wyatt’s legs buckle, but he manages to stay upright. He closes his eyes. “Can I see him?”
“We’re calling his next of kin,” the doctor says while he finds the opening in the curtain.
“Tanvi.” Wyatt breathes her name like a prayer. His eyes, when they focus on me, are hollow, his face gaunt. “Tanvi.”
“I know.” First her husband, and now her only son.
Seeing Isaac lying on the hospital bed is surreal. He should wake up. But at the same time, I’m struck by the difference in a person once their heart no longer beats. He’s Isaac, but he’s not.
“I can’t.” His voice catches on a sob. “I don’t—” He tries to speak again. Then a sob rises out of him so gut-wrenching the sound will haunt me for the rest of my life. Pure heartbreak. His shoulders collapse and rise again like the waves in a stormy sea hitting the shore.
I wrap my arms around him, hugging him from the back. He clutches Isaac’s hand, and for the last time, the three of us are united.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wyatt
Present Day
I storm into the kitchen. I was on the brink of something with Ellie. But I can’t ignore a call from Anna. Sometimes I’m the only thing keeping her from fleeing and taking Jamal with her.
“Anna?”
“Sorry, W
yatt, it’s me,” Camila says.
“What’s up?” With Camila calling instead of Anna, this conversation could go two ways, but I’m certain it’ll end up nowhere I’ll like.
“Anna’s gone. Kyle called when she hadn’t returned after a few hours. Her phone is here, obviously, so I’m not sure when or how she’ll get in touch with you.”
I groan and plant my back against the kitchen wall, sinking to the floor. “What else have you got going on? I’m only here for another day and a half. Then I’m back and I can take him.” She knows what’s coming. This isn’t the first time Anna has run off while I’ve been away. Camila flew with Jamal to Tokyo once. She wasn’t so happy at the end of that flight. Jamal is not a traveler. Good thing I pay her well.
“Wyatt.” There’s warning in her voice.
“Camila, you understand how important my time here is.”
“And you realize you and your sister aren’t my only clients. Yes, you pay me for my services, but other people do too.”
“Give me half an hour and I’ll call you back.” I hang up and dial Tanvi’s number. She treats Jamal like a grandchild and might be willing to take him for a day or two.
“Wyatt?” Tanvi answers the phone, surprise in her voice.
“Hey, Tanvi, sorry to call out of the blue. Anna’s taken off.” I wince. “Any chance you could take Jamal for a bit?”
There’s a long pause. “This happens a lot.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes and take my stress ball out of my pocket to squeeze it.
“Maybe you should think about making more permanent arrangements?”
We’ve talked about this solution before. But I’m not going after custody of Anna’s kid. Whether or not she’s a good mom, she’d never forgive me.
“Can you take him for a couple of days? I should be back in a day or two.”
“Where are you this time?” Tanvi asks.
“Ellie.” She’ll understand. She called me after she watched Jackson’s show, but I didn’t tell her what I was doing then. No point in getting her hopes up.
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