catch up

Cliff
The shrill ring of my phone jerks me out of a dead sleep. I sit up in bed, sweating. The club rooms are hot, as if the hormones from downstairs rise, permeating the ceiling that separates the two floors. Swinging my legs over the edge, I get up and crack a window. Cold air rushes in. Heavy lidded, I tip my head back and enjoy the wave.
My phone rings again. Silently cursing Lucy for choosing such a bone shattering ringtone, I scoop it from the nightstand.
The name on the display makes all of the blood drain straight out of my head. Before I even answer, I already know. Something is wrong.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Cliff,” she gasps. “Please.”
There’s no need for her to say any more.
I pull on clothes as I make my way through the small room, shrugging into my cut almost as an afterthought. I pound down the stairs and fly out the door. It’s as if my body has taken control, leaving my brain in my bed. By the time my head catches up, I’m flying down 63.
I ignore the speed limit and get to Olivia’s in under ten minutes. It’s probably more like five. Practically knocking the motorcycle over, I dismount and break into a run.
The apartment door is unlocked. I push my way in and look around wildly for her. My brain processes the scene in small increments.
Blood on the carpet in the entryway.
Shattered knick knacks strewn across the floor.
Olivia huddled next to her bedroom door, a gash oozing from her temple.
The Glock in her lap.
A man splayed in the center of the living room, a hole between his eyes.
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