by Mazzy King
After a few exploratory bites that indicate I won’t puke from nerves if I eat it, I start to demolish it.
I’m halfway through when I realize I never got Detective Rivers’s phone number—or Rhys’s.
Chapter 7
Rhys
“Sergeant Hartley?”
The quiet voice in the darkness reaches through all the layers of fog to pierce my brain.
“Vi?” I mumble. Saying her full name requires too much effort, and I think I like the shortened version, anyway. It rhymes with “my.” My Vi.
“No, honey,” the voice says. An older, feminine voice. Motherly, kind, sort of down home. It makes me feel cared for. “It’s your nurse, Tami. Just checking on you, baby. Glad you’re with us.”
I can’t quite open my eyes yet, but I hear the steady blip blip blip of machinery around me, and that pungent astringent smell tells me I can only be in one place—the hospital.
But I guess I didn’t bleed out after all. Which is good news.
Gradually my surroundings seep into my consciousness, along with my full recollection of everything that happened up until the point I told Violet I loved her.
I manage to crack my eyes open. “Where’s Violet?”
“I’m not sure who Violet is, Sergeant Hartley, but I’m sure you’ll find her soon enough.” The nurse is a middle-aged woman with dark skin and elaborate, beaded braids that make a pleasant clicking noise whenever she moves. She gives me a friendly smile. “Right now, I just need you to rest, sweetie. Your surgery was successful in that the surgeon was able to remove the bullet fragment in your upper shoulder—which was about an inch from hitting an artery, by the way—and repair the surrounding tissue, but you’re going to need to take it easy for a while.”
“My buddy Saint,” I murmur, swallowing. My mouth is dry. “Where’s he?”
“Detective Rivers? He’s been here off and on, sometimes hours at a time. He just left a little bit ago because it got so late. I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What day is it?”
Nurse Tami checks her watch. “It’s two a.m. Monday morning.”
Monday… I was with Violet on Saturday. So almost two days have gone by. Does she know where I am? Has she been to see me?
“Nobody named Violet has come by?” I croak. “Prettiest girl in the world. Blonde hair, dark roots. Green eyes.”
Nurse Tami gives my cheek a sympathetic pat, like my mom would. “No, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
My heart plummets. “Okay. Could I have some water, please?”
“It’s right here.” Nurse Tami picks up one of those plastic hospital water jugs and helps me sit up slowly to drink. It tastes like champagne on my parched tongue. “Better?”
I nod, closing my eyes as she rests a cool palm on my forehead. “Better. Thank you.”
“Just get some rest, now, you hear?” The nurse sets my water within reach and turns for the door. Then she pauses. “Come to think of it, the nurse at the desk mentioned someone came up here yesterday morning, asking to see you.”
My heart catches.
Tami shakes her head thoughtfully. “Nurse didn’t catch the name, but said it was definitely a young lady. Pretty.” Her tone turned regretful. “But you know policy states we can’t reveal if you’re here or not, for your safety. And since she wasn’t on your list of emergency contacts…”
I sigh. “Yeah.” Fucking policy. Still, even as my heart throbs with a little pain, there’s a glow in my chest. She came for me—she tried.
“Sorry, hon.”
“Tami?” I say as my eyes drop down.
“Yes?”
“If she comes by again—Violet—could you wake me up?”
I can’t see her face, but I hear the little note of sadness in her voice when she says, “Of course I will. You sleep now.”
Sleep isn’t going to give me much of a choice, no matter how hard I fight it. As it rushes over me like a tide coming in, I wonder if what happened freaked Violet out enough to where she wants to keep her distance. After all, it’s not every day you’re forced to be part of a hostage situation. And get your apartment shot up.
Maybe what happened between us—the beautiful stuff, not the shitty stuff—was just a one-time thing. Maybe I don’t fit the mold of those perfect heroes she writes about.
I wonder when I’ll see her again…or if.
Chapter 8
Violet
“I just loved Quincy and Regina’s story,” a young woman gushes as I lean over her book, pen in hand. “Are you going to write another book for them?”
“Yes!” the woman behind her chimes in, leaning around the first woman. “Sorry, not to barge in, but yes, please! I loved them too, and I have to know what happens after he takes the job in the other county. Will they still be together?”
“Sure,” I say with a grin. I hadn’t planned on writing another book for these characters, but if people want more, who am I to deny them that? “What’s your name?”
“Kristin,” she says with a broad smile. “With a K. And an I.”
To Kristin, I write, then pause, trying to think of something romantic to write. A pang of sadness—another pang, I should say; they’ve been pretty nonstop since Saturday night—hits me. When you find true love, or even think you’ve found it, hang on tight. And make sure to enjoy the ride. Love, Violet.
I blow on the ink, then close the cover and hand her the book. She asks for a picture, which blows my fucking mind, but I comply. Then, it’s time to meet the next reader behind her.
I’ve been at it for a couple of hours now, since four. It’s been a heartwarming and wholly surreal experience. People waited in line—to meet me. Little old me, a shy thirty-year-old who likes to tell love stories. For the last couple of hours, readers have shared with me what my words meant to them, and it’s left me speechless. Stories I wrote mostly for myself meant something to other people who read them. Gave them hope for love after a bad breakup. Renewed their desire to hold out for The One instead of settling for Mr. Right Now. Comforted young wives with deployed husbands, or helped spice up a more seasoned couple’s sex life. The impact of hearing their personal anecdotes around my stories has been absolutely awe-inspiring, and I fully intend to break down when I get home and sob into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. I’m just so grateful.
And yet, there’s a big part of me that’s missing something.
Someone.
Rhys.
I realized I’d fucked up by not getting the contact phone numbers for either Rhys or Detective Rivers. I went to every hospital in town on Sunday, but no one would tell me if Rhys Hartley was a patient or not. Because he’s law enforcement, that information is classified. Then I tried calling the department to contact Detective Rivers, but I was told I could leave a message on his desk voicemail and that they wouldn’t give out his cell phone number. A social media search was fruitless. I’m willing to bet cops use fake names, or common nicknames among friends and family for their personal profiles, and have the strictest privacy settings.
Completely understandable. There are a lot of creeps out there.
Unfortunately, there’s also one person who’s just trying to track down the man she loves.
I’ve been checking online too. No obituaries, nothing in the news about a cop dying. There have been a few stories about the incident outside my apartment—and true to Detective Rivers’s word, I went home seven o’clock Sunday evening and found that not only was my window intact, but the place looked like it had been professionally cleaned too—that mentioned a SWAT officer getting hurt and that he was listed in serious condition, but that’s been it.
I just want to know…he’s okay.
There’s got to be some way to find him. I make a vow to myself that come Monday, I’m going to do whatever it takes to do that.
After all, it’s partly because of him I’m even here today. He helped me find the courage to read my words out loud, and now I’m going to do it again.
&n
bsp; The bookstore manager who also organized the signing starts herding readers to a small room near the back of the store. Coffee and refreshments have been set up too. There’s a comfy-looking chair near the back of the room, and there are several rows of metal folding chairs facing it.
I swallow, my hands suddenly sweaty. This is it.
Readers smile at me as I walk to the front, and I smile back. I decided to wear black today—black flowing top, black jeans, black flats. Better to conceal my nervous sweat stains, if I have any. I regret wearing my hair down, though, because the back of my neck is sweating too, and hair sticks to it. My golden hair looked nice cascading down the front of my black top, but now, I regret everything.
“This is an excerpt from my latest release,” I say after I’ve settled in the chair. I decided to go straight for the sexy scene. It’s taken on a whole new meaning for me now.
Just picture them naked, Rhys said. Picture me naked.
To a rapt audience, I boldly read the scene of Leona and William making love—the same one I read to Rhys while we made love. No one laughs. No one faints. There’s only wide eyes, some hands on throats and chests, low murmurs of approval.
My confidence soars. I’m not blushing. I’m not hot. I’ve stopped sweating. My voice hasn’t trembled since the first few words. I can do this.
“‘As Leona lay in William’s arms,’” I read, “‘waiting for her heart to finally slow, she was struck by a realization. A simple, yet terrifying one.’”
That’s when I falter.
The last time I read these words aloud, I was in Rhys’s arms. Safe, warm, and overcome with love. The most intense love I never thought I’d get to experience in my life. That lack of love is why I started writing novels. I never dreamed it could be real for me, and fuel my novels.
But that love is missing. I don’t know where it—where he—is. How badly he’s been hurt. If he’s all right now.
If he still wants me.
I liked your story. A lot. I love you too, Vi.
If he still…loves me.
On the page, the words blur together as sudden, hot dampness comes to my eyes. I blink swiftly and glance up. Now the looks on those faces have gone from enrapture to concern.
“Sorry,” I say breathlessly. I clear my throat. “‘She was struck…by a—a realization’—I’m sorry.”
The last two words come out of me in a broken whisper and I lower the book to my lap.
The book manager lifts a subtle hand. You okay? she mouths.
I clasp my lips together and stretch them into a smile I’m sure is more of a grimace, and nod. Really convincing.
The readers murmur to one another.
I press my fist to my mouth, truly embarrassed now that I can’t get my emotions in check.
“‘She was in love with him,’” a voice at the back of the rooms calls.
My heart trips and falls flat on its face as I slowly raise my head.
The readers all whip around toward the sound of the voice.
From the back of the room, carrying an enormous bouquet of violets and three heart-shaped helium balloons in one hand, his other arm in a sling, Rhys Hartley, resplendent in his crisply pressed patrol uniform, walks up the aisle.
Several women gasp. They probably think he’s here to arrest me. Like maybe he found that open can of white wine underneath my signing table.
Me? I forget how to make sound at all.
Rhys walks toward me, a slight, sweet smile on his face. “‘She was in love with him,” he recites again, never taking his eyes from me. “‘Him, the one she’d had no idea she’d been waiting for all this time. Her whole life.’”
“Oh my God,” someone cries out softly.
“Rhys,” I whisper.
“I’m a big fan,” he says, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Your biggest, I’d say. But I had a thought about this scene.”
“Y-yeah?” I manage.
He turns to a woman in the seat closest to him. She has tears streaming from her eyes. “Would you mind holding these for me?” he asks.
She nods happily and takes the bouquet and balloons from him.
He pulls me to my feet, his good arm wrapping tightly around me. The gadgetry on his duty belt digs into my belly, but it bothers me not at all.
“I read the book. And based on the life William led, the constant struggles he had with the people in his life, the loneliness he felt—it seems like he needs Leona as much as she needs him. So, I’m going to say, the realization he has is that…he loves her. Her, the one he had no idea he was waiting for all this time. His whole life.”
He uses his other thumb to nudge my chin up. “Have you ever felt like that about somebody, Vi? Because I have. I love you, Violet Randall. And I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“I love you, Rhys,” I whisper. It’s the only thing I can think of in this moment, the only thing that’s worth saying.
He kisses me.
The audience goes absolutely nuts.
Chapter 9
Violet
When the applause dies down, I manage to thank all of the readers for coming. Rhys takes a big group picture of all of us on my phone’s camera, and I promise the group I’m going to post it on my Facebook author page as soon as possible and invite them all to tag themselves. And, everyone here will be getting a paperback copy of my newest book—the one I was finishing up when Rhys came knocking on my door—when it releases in a couple months.
Rhys helps me load up all of my things I brought for the signing—extra books, a banner, treats and bookmarks for the attendees—as best he can, which is impressive for a guy who can only use one arm at the moment.
“I have my car here,” I say shyly, gesturing to my white SUV.
He nods. “What do you say to dinner? At my house? It’s almost seven. You’ve got to be hungry.”
“I’m famished, actually.” I smile up at him. “It’d be nice to catch up. I have…questions.”
“And I have answers,” he replies, and I know it’s a promise.
I follow him to his home. He has a cozy house in a quiet, modest neighborhood. Down the street, a dog barks. It feels like a simple, relaxed, nice Saturday evening for all the families who live on this street. They probably don’t get their homes shot up or bear witness to their neighbors losing their shit and holding their families hostage.
For a second, I can’t move from beside my car, parked in the driveway.
A warm hand touches my cheek. “Vi?”
I shift my gaze toward Rhys, and I’m surprised when a couple tears roll down my cheeks. “Yeah.”
His blue eyes flash with understanding. “Want to come in?”
I nod, brushing my fingers across my cheeks.
Rhys winds an arm across my shoulders and leads me inside through the garage. It’s definitely a dude’s house, but I can tell he values cleanliness. The split-level home features a living room with an oversized couch, a huge TV mounted on the wall, nice, warm-brown coffee and end tables, and family pictures on their surfaces and on the wall. There’s a framed photo of Rhys and a young woman who looks a little older than him on the end table. I pick it up. It’s got to be a sister—they share the same wide smile, the same blue eyes, the same sandy hair.
“That’s Amy,” Rhys says.
“Your sister,” I say. “She’s pretty. She has a great smile.”
He nods. “She’s my best friend.” He tilts his head. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No, only child. Always wished I had one, though. I think I’d want an older sibling. A big sister to teach me stuff. A big brother to protect me.”
“Little brothers will protect you too,” Rhys says with a smile. “I remember the first time Amy brought home a guy. I gave him so much shit, he ran out of the house and jumped in his car to drive away in less than fifteen minutes.”
I can’t help laughing at that—hard. “I might have to put that in a book.”
He grins. “Okay, but I
get royalties for that.” Rhys’s face goes serious. “Listen, we should talk about what happened. Will you sit?”
He gestures into the kitchen behind me, a space that has room for the generous kitchen table on one side. I notice it’s set for two, complete with wineglasses and candles in the middle.
“Expecting someone, Sergeant?” I tease, sliding into a chair.
He smiles and lights the candle. “Yep. You.”
Rhys goes to the oven and withdraws two covered plates. On each is a bacon-wrapped filet mignon, a twice-baked potato, and bright, fresh green beans.
“I made a lot of assumptions today,” he says, carrying one plate at a time and shooing away my offer for help. “One of which that you would want to come here for dinner. And two that you like red meat. But since you ate pepperoni pizza, I figured that was a safe assumption.”
I grin as he pours us each a little red wine. “You assumed correctly.” I saw into the steak. It’s a perfect medium. “You also assumed I don’t like well-done steaks.”
He looks up. “Need me to cook it longer?”
I wave a hand. “Don’t you touch this steak.” Then I glance at his plate. “Let me cut it for you.”
I slide out of my seat and go to his side. Then I cut his filet into manageable pieces. Before I can head back to my seat, he drapes a hand over mine and pulls me in for a kiss.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
“I’m really happy you’re okay,” I whisper.
“I was an inch away from not being okay,” he admits. “The bullet almost hit an artery. But the doctors dug out the bullet, and I’ll be in physical therapy for a while. I’ll regain full mobility, it’ll take some time. So that means desk work for me.”
“Oh darn,” I say sarcastically, and smile. Then I clear my throat and push green beans around my plate. “I wanted to get in touch with you. Boy, you cops sure are hard to contact.”
