7. Iggy

CHAPTER 7

Iggy

W hat the fuck is wrong with Marley? Why is he freaking out?

Marley's eyes widen as he stumbles backward, his body colliding with the wall with a thud. His fingers clench his hair as he collapses onto the floor. I've never seen him like this. He was fine a moment ago, and it's like he snapped. What the fuck happened in the last ten minutes? "Marley, you okay?"

He doesn't answer, leaving me feeling helpless. Marley's gasps for breath have my heart roaring in protectiveness and causing an urgent need in me to resolve the situation in any way that I can. His large, tattooed hand grips his throat and his mouth opens wide, as if trying to infuse oxygen into lungs that are deprived of air.

Panic washes over me as his other hand clenches his shirt by his heart. He's having a heart attack. Instinctively, I grab my phone to dial 9-1-1 but Marley brushes my arm as he mouths something.

"I'm getting you help, Marley, hold on."

"Ativan," he mumbles, his words barely audible. "Bed—table."

I rush from his side to the bedroom and find a fucking pharmacy on his nightstand. When the fuck did Marley start taking all these drugs? My fingers lift each bottle until I find the right one: Ativan (lorazepam). I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and crouch down to Marley's quivering body. Tears stream down his face as his body convulses with such intensity that fear crashes into my heart like a blunt force trauma.

"Fuck," I stammer. My hands are so shaken by the sight of him laying helpless on the floor that I have issues opening up a childproof pill bottle. After a few attempts, I pop off the white cap and take a small white pill out of the container. Marley doesn't even wait for me to hand it to him. Like a junkie, he lunges for the pill, as if it holds the answers to every single problem that ails him. He doesn't even take the open bottle of water I hold toward him. He swallows that pill down and lays there on the hotel room floor staring up at the ceiling.

The drug is like a potent elixir concocted by a wizard. Marley's body reverts to the guy I usually know as soon as he swallows the pill. His gasps for breath lesson, the shakes in his hands subside, and the tears falling from his eyes cease.

"What the fuck happened?" I whisper.

"My brain happened."

His brain happened? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? "What do you mean, Mar?"

Marley stares blankly up at me, still making no effort to get himself off the floor. "Do you think I take all those pills 'cause I'm a pill-popping junkie?"

There's no emotion in his voice, the question he proposed asked in a matter-of-fact way.

I don't like the detachment in his voice, as if he is dissociating the circumstances of what happened here. Moments ago I thought my best friend was about to fuckin' die and now his only concern is whether I assumed him to be a junkie. As much as I want to get on a soapbox and make the situation about my feelings, I understand that has no relevance to the situation at hand.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

"Go to your room, Iggy."

"Motherfucker, I'm not going anywhere. I want some goddamn answers, Marley."

Marley shrugs. I fuckin' hate how he always shrugs, as if nothing in life is a big deal. "I'm not dropping this. How does a man who did some kinky, fucked-up shit a few hours ago find himself in a frenzy because I requested you watch a movie with me? Marley, I don't know what that was, but I thought you were about to die." My eyes roam from his relaxed frame to the bedroom door. "You addicted? I've seen junkies tweak out before and level with a minor hit. Did you go into withdrawal?"

Marley shakes his head. "No. It's not like that."

"Then what the hell just happened?"

"I'm tired," Marley says before rising and walking toward the bedroom. Keeping his back to me, he whispers, "Can we talk about this another time?"

I want to demand he tell me what's going on, but I walk over to the sofa and lay down.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out how this little sofa is going to accommodate my six-foot-two frame for the night."

Marley glares at me. "You know, you have a perfectly pleasant hotel room."

"Yes, I know."

"So why aren't you leaving to sleep on that bed with the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets on it? "

"Because I'm more likely to actually fall asleep here."

Marley opens his mouth to say something but then shuts it, changing his mind. He shakes his head like a father frustrated with his misbehaving child, turns his back to me, and heads into the bedroom. He slams the bedroom door closed for effect, shutting me out.

I grab one of the couch cushions and place it under my head, trying to convince myself it's as comfortable as the pillow on my bed.

"Here," Marley says, shoving a pillow and a blanket at me.

I smirk up at him in all his shirtless glory. I know it's a little fucked up to be checking the man out after what happened not too long ago four feet from where I'm lying, but I can't help how my cock reacts to him. The fucker has a mind of its own. "Awww, you like me. You really like me."

"Can't have you hurting your back and fuckin' up our shows. "

Fuck, why does him saying that piss me off? "Keep telling yourself it's all about business, Marley. I'm sure if you repeat the mantra long enough, you'll eventually be able to convince yourself it's true."

Marley nods his head and without a word, goes back into the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.