The Worst Night

Sawyer

“What the hell Carmen?” I question my second as the door to my office slams open against the wall. She is out of breath, her clothing is disheveled, and it doesn’t look like she brushed her hair. She isn’t her normal put-together self, wearing Jeremy’s hideous clow lounge pants that are peeking out from underneath one of Cruise’s giant tank tops. At least she remembered shoes, even if she didn’t bother with a bra. One breast in attempting to escape out of the armhole.

“You need to answer your phone,” she hisses at me angrily. I looked at my phone, noticing it was dead. What if something had happened to the kids? Luckily, everyone knows they can find me in one of two places, home or here at the club.

“What’s wrong?” I’m immediately on alert at the sight of her and the fury in her voice.

“One of our police officer friends called me. He found my brother in the forensics lab. He had been shot in the back multiple times. He is in critical care at the hospital.” I jump to my feet, my