I had hardly gotten the covers over my head and Sharyn was breaking the door down. A lead-foot on that one. She was hitting the spot I had shown her the night before last, and had taken my advice to heart: pound the shit out of the door and the man behind it. Not so proud to have been on the receiving end.
“Knock, knock,” she said. In my mind, I saw bulging eyes, running and ruined mascara, and falling out all over the place. She had scored the other night, and rationed out her breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.
I pushed off the covers, sweaty skin sticking to the fabric. Everything was too much, too much at once. The sensation of sensation, the knowledge that, two feet away from me, there was a dead girl and a ticking time bomb.
Hell hath no fury, I swear.
Rigor mortis was a lot uglier up close. Imagine taut strings over motionless bone, caked with make-up. She may have been pretty before, but now wasn’t helping her out too much. I threw my cover over her, and ran, naked, into the bathroom.
All the while, the front door had been broken. She dashed in, and we crossed.
We collided in an accident of confusion and worthless violence.