Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(79)
“See ya later, Kens,” Andrew says, a small wave over his shoulder. Owen keeps his back to me, pointing to his brother’s door down the hall, and he watches until his brother is back inside, the door closed, before turning back to face me.
“Kens, what are you doing here?” His sigh is heavy, and he looks like he’s been mugged, a small bruise forming on one cheek.
“Owen, what happened?” I say, reaching to touch it. He jerks back, moving up and away from me.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he says, his eyes rolling a little with his temper. “Didn’t Ryan find you? I’m coming back for the game. I was just going to meet you at the gym.”
“He found me. He said…” I’m interrupted by the sound of open wailing—heavy cries filled with swear words and a few nonsensical things.
“Owen!” James finally yells, his voice broken, sounding nothing like the intimidating figure from before.
“Just…stay here,” Owen says forcefully, his hand held up to my face as he turns quickly and takes the steps two at a time, rushing down the hallway to where I’m assuming his brother is.
At first, I do as he asks, letting my hands grip either side of the banister, my body swaying back and forth with indecision—to go up or down. I hear the sound of scuffling at first, then something heavy knocked to the floor, followed by the sound of running water. It’s as if my feet carried me on their own volition, and somehow I find myself standing in front of the bathroom. Owen is kneeling, his body leaning over the bathtub, steam coming from the blast of running hot water, and he’s soaking towels. He doesn’t notice me until he shuts the water off, and begins to twist one of the towels, wringing it of excess water.
“Kens, I told you to wait there!” he yells, his face angry and his eyes stern. He’s trying to use his aggression to dominate me, as I’ve seen him do to others.
“How can I help?” I ask, taking a step into the bathroom, then stopping dead in my tracks when I realize James is lying naked around the corner, his head resting on the side of the toilet, vomit…everywhere. I cover my mouth and nose, both to hide my shock and to stifle the smell. Owen was trying to keep this from me, but it’s becoming apparent that he’s also trying to keep it from everyone—leaving no one there for Owen.
James begins weeping the instant he sees me, his eyes not able to focus on me entirely, the puffiness almost swelling them shut. Owen slides back against the side of the tub, his hands dropping the wet towel on the floor, his long legs stretching out as he flips his hat from his head, tossing it out into the hall.
“Shit!” he yells, pushing his head forward into his hands, his fingers digging roughly into his hair, wrapping through strands and pulling until he finally releases and lets his head fall back against the edge of the tub. When he rolls it to the side slightly, his eyes catch mine again, and his strength is gone. Owen isn’t falling apart; he was never together.
“Let me help,” I say softly, my lips quivering with nervous energy, my mind putting the pieces together while everything before comes into focus. I have options, I have help—and it’s going to be painful. But Owen can’t do this…whatever this is…on his own. Not if he still wants to live his life.
“Where’s his room?” I ask.
Owen nods to the right and looks in a direction toward the end of the hall. I move closer to him and lift the wet towel from the floor, then pull my sweatshirt collar up over my nose and mouth, hiding the gagging I can’t help but do underneath. I reach for Owen, and he looks at my hand, his eyes blinking slowly. Everything in his expression shows his acceptance of the fact that he has run out of options, that he isn’t as strong as he pretends. His eyelids quiver as they close, Owen fighting not to feel the gravity of what is happening any more than he has to. He takes my hand finally, and lifts himself to stand with me, grabbing the towel from my hands and going to work cleaning up the mess from his brother’s frail, pale, and thin body.
He tosses it back into the hot water of the bathtub then turns to me. “I’ll deal with all of this shit later. Just…help me get him in his room,” he says, and I nod.
I won’t leave you, Owen.
We each take an arm, and James works to bring his legs under his body, his frame swaying awkwardly, his balance nonexistent. He probably weighs less than I do, his tall body is so thin, but his length makes it hard to direct him and move him the few feet it takes to get him to his room. He slips on the floor three times, each time fighting to grip our arms on the way down, his own swinging wildly. This must be how Owen got that bruise.
Once we get him to his bed, he grips the sheets and claws his way to the middle before finally letting his weak muscles give way to the coolness of the bed, his lips parted and dry. He looks half alive, and he’s shivering uncontrollably.
“Make it stop,” he says, the dull look on his face slowly melding into sorrow, then torture. Tears stream from his eyes, his nose running into the edge of the pillow, his head never making it to the top of the bed. “Owen, please. Make this stop! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”
He keeps screaming, his hands clutching the fabric beneath him, fists grabbing blankets and pulling them to his chest. Owen fights to cover his body, the entire time James working against him, his arms jutting, his legs kicking.