More Than a Hotline Fling

-33-

Damian's POV

I lost track of how many coworkers I pushed past on my way out to the lot. Slipping on my helmet, I squealed out to a confused look on the access guard's face. He extended his hand as I almost tore off the liftgate in my hurried exit.

The ride back to my apartment zipped past me in a fog. Cars and cabs blurred past me on the streets as I leaned and swerved between them. Pedestrians flipped me off and shouted when I hopped the curb and zipped down alleyways.

My vision blurred through the hot tears that streamed down my cheeks. Pushing through them, I held a death grip on the handles and choked my bike between my thighs.

The wail of Fire and EMS alarms hit my ears two blocks from the scene and the vehicles' lights hit my eyes in a haze of red and blue flashes. By the time my condo building came into view, my heart dropped so fast and far down that I almost threw up. Without remorse, I slipped around clogged-up traffic from a Patrol unit rerouting around a blockade.

A blockade around my condo building.

"Sir!" An officer rushed at me as I jumped my bike over the curb. "You can't -"

"Captain Rivera. It's my fucking apartment," I snarled at him, shut off my bike, and threw it down on the sidewalk.

It landed with a scrape of metal that should have concerned me, but my only concern was June. My eyes scanned the area, which included the injured security guard lifted into the back of an ambulance. His eyes were closed but the shakes in his shoulders indicated that he was still alive.

June. Please be here.

Slow steps exploded into a sprinted run as I shoved my way past any and every static body in my way. With my badge flashed out for VIP access, I cursed each cop, fireman, nosy neighbor giving their statements, and sidewalk gawker out of my path. Returning swear words and 'hey! Watch it!' shouts didn't register.

The cool glass of the circular entrance doors met my palms as I slammed them as hard as I could, humming vibrations through the thick air. The slow pace of the revolving doors only fired up my frustration to the point my heart thumped in my ears. I wanted to smash my fists through the glass.

Fucking hell!

Inside the elevator, I collapsed my shoulder against the elevator wall and pushed 63 over and over with my thumb.

Click, click, click.

The hums and soft shakes of the elevator had nothing on the tremors that shook me. My fingers twitched without my control. Spasms in my shoulder vibrated down every vertebra in my spine. Alternating convulsions tensed the tendons in my wrists.

Our hallway was full of activity, but not in a good way. A few neighbors stuck their heads out or stood in my way, interviewed within a sea of cops and EMS workers that threaded in and out of my apartment. One obvious fact seized my heart, squeezing it with pain.

They're not moving fast.

They moved with slow, steady, and synchronized, autopilot movements. My breath stalled in my lungs at a gurney pushed out the door. A white sheet covered a small body, which whimpered a soft sound that tore my heart into a million pieces.

Four limp, gray paws draped near the edge.

"Bullet," I croaked and stepped over.

My dog, my best buddy, laid on his side, his eyes wide, pupils pooled, and tongue lagged out his side. Splatters of blood matted his short, gray fur and outlined his muzzle. His chest pitched in rapid, uneven movements. A large red stain pooled around his right shoulder. At the sight of me, his whines intensified, so I cupped my hand around his top ear and rubbed. He thumped his tail on his gurney bed.