“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mick growled, taking the items. When he turned the spoon over, there were scorch marks on it and I felt so goddamned stupid. We’d all just assumed, but Mick had confirmed that the spoon had probably been used for heroin like we’d suspected. “Let me get in there, kid.”
Standing up, I moved back so Mick could get closer to Zack. I felt comforted having our tour manager there taking control, because I felt absolutely helpless. As Mick got on his knees, even Cy got up, sitting on the edge of the bathtub while the older man examined our frontman. Mick lifted up Zack’s arm, scrutinizing the flesh in his inner elbow and along his forearm before moving to his left. “Damn it. Did any of you talk to him before he went unconscious?”
“No,” I said, my voice soft. “He was partying up here with some girl, and she ran down to the party on the first floor and told me he needed help—but she ran off before I could ask her anything.” I was so angry with her as I related that information. If I ever saw that girl again, I’d shake the shit out of her.
She’d done this to my Zack.
But, no, although I wanted to slap her silly, she was obviously scared—and at least she’d found me before she’d run off. She could’ve just left…and then Zack would have been a headline that had been printed hundreds of times:Promising young rock star dies of drug overdose. To us, it would have been a tragedy. To the world, it would have been just another day. We hadn’t achieved the stardom that would cause fans to mourn. Maybe ten years from now, Zack’s untimely death would have hit like Chris Cornell, Kurt Cobain, or Jimi Hendrix—but if he were to die now, the world would forget him.
And part of me would die.
Live, Zack.
In those moments, I realized just how much I still lovedhim, cared for him, worried about him. Our relationship was over—and it had been far too dysfunctional to warrant trying again—but he still occupied a huge chunk of my heart and he always would.
A loud sudden banging on the door made me jump. “Paramedics!” came a voice through the door. Braden was closest and quickly opened it for a man and a woman wearing dark navy pants and shirts with patches on them. The man looked to be in his thirties, but the woman didn’t look much older than those of us in the band.
Braden said, “He’s in there.”
Without needing to be asked, both Cy and Mick moved out of the way for the two to get closer to Zack, but we all huddled just inside the bathroom. “How long has the patient been unresponsive?”
Everyone turned to me, the first person to find him.
“I’m not sure. A girl he was with came and found me…um, maybe fifteen minutes ago?”
Mick said, “He was drinking tonight and he has a prescription for Xanax. He was prescribed to take it once or twice a day—”
I interrupted. “But he got it less than two weeks ago and it’s almost empty.”
“And it looks like he might have injected heroin. The hotel doesn’t have any Narcan.”
“We’ll take care of that,” the man said, getting into his bag. I had a hard time seeing past Mick and the man, but he put something up to Zack’s nose. I couldn’t tell if he’d actually inserted it into his nostril, but in seconds, Zack’s legs moved and he gasped loudly.
Tears poured down my face, a mixture of relief and heightening anxiety—because, even though he’d responded, I didn’t know if Zack was necessarily out of the woods yet.
And his eyes were still closed. He started gagging and I felt like my body was in the grip of some evil force, wrapping me in a panicked state. I was grateful that the two people tending to him were calm and collected. They talked quietly before the man said, “Would someone please hand me a towel?”
Mick grabbed a large towel folded on the shelf above the rack and handed it to the man.
Then the young woman stood. “Excuse me,” she said and walked out.
The man said, “Please clear this area.” It didn’t take us long to realize he wanted us out of the way. Mick put an arm around me as we backed into the room a bit—but I felt so helpless, especially because I couldn’t even see what was happening with Zack. Not long after she left, the woman returned, knocking on the door again. Braden answered it, holding it open so she could enter with a gurney. When she wheeled it in, she left it just outside the bathroom. It wasn’t long before they were carrying Zack’s limp body to it—the man held Zack’s upper body, his hands supporting him under the shoulders, while the woman held his legs, and they positioned him on the gurney before moving rails in place and then strapped him in as if he were a child in a car seat.
A sob escaped my throat—and, even though I was still in Mick’s embrace, Braden took one of my hands and squeezed.
This was hurting him as much as it was me—because, even though I had loved Zack since I’d been an adolescent girl, Braden and Zack had been like brothers for far longer. I squeezed back, hoping I was giving him the support he needed.
As they wheeled Zack through the doorway, Mick asked a few questions, leaving me behind with Braden. And, as we hugged and comforted each other, a mantra repeated over and over in my head:Please don’t let him die.
CHAPTER 15
The four of us—me, Braden, Cy, and Mick—arrived at the hospital not too long after we watched the ambulance take off with Zack. It hadn’t been difficult getting there because traffic was lighter than usual due to the early morning hour. The whole way there, Braden had held my hand while I worried about every possible outcome. Sure, Zack might escape unscathed, but there were so many other possibilities.
What if he was braindead—or suffered some sort of brain damage?
What if he never woke up…if he became a vegetable, living only because he was hooked up to machines?
What if he recovered but was never able to play again?
