by Mazzy King
Except…he didn’t say it back.
And why would he? He doesn’t know you!
The urge to cry suddenly comes over me, and I hate myself for it.
I shift beneath him. He’s still inside me. He isn’t sleeping. He presses soft kisses to the side of my neck. “Rhys…”
“Hmm?” he murmurs.
A loud crackling noise from the other room catches my ear. It’s almost missable. “Rhys?”
“Hmmmm.” He nuzzles my neck.
“Is that your radio?”
If I shoved a hot poker onto one of his ass cheeks, he couldn’t jump out of bed any faster. He grabs his pants from the floor and hurtles out of the room.
Uh-oh.
I fumble around in the dark for my clothes and tug everything on. When I hurry out into the living room, finding Rhys wearing pants and crouched next to his rifle at the window, I feel a surge of alarm. I also notice my loose top is on backwards and inside out.
“What’s going on?” I ask in a hushed voice.
Rhys ignores me as he attaches a Bluetooth-type device to his ear. I can no longer hear the crackling of the radio. “Copy that,” he says in this clipped voice that makes my eyes widen. He sort of molds himself around the rifle, in a position that can’t be comfortable. The muscles in his back ripple and flex and I’m momentarily distracted.
Then it hits me—he’s getting ready to take a shot. Like, the shot.
“Holy fucking shit,” I gasp.
I should probably get the hell out of here. But where to go?
Then, a strange noise fills the air outside. Like pop-pop-pop. It’s like firecrackers. A lot like firecrackers, actually, but…
Sinister.
“Down down down,” Rhys bellows.
It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking to me.
He spares me one quick glance over his shoulder, and instead of his eyes being wide and rolling like I’m pretty sure mine are, his are narrow and laser-focused. “Violet, get the fuck down!”
I immediately drop to the floor on my belly, then instinct makes me squirm across the floor to huddle behind the kitchen counter.
The first report from Rhys’s rifle is so, so loud. I can’t help the scream that tears from my throat.
The next sound I hear is shattering glass. Glass that’s part of my home.
And then I hear another sound that makes my blood run cold.
A heavy grunt of pain—from Rhys.
“Rhys!” I cry, sliding from behind the counter.
I see the blood immediately. It seeps from his shoulder.
“Stay where you are,” he says between his teeth. “Fucking motherfucker is shooting at us!”
I want to make a sarcastic remark about how I’m totally shocked at that information, but all that escapes is a sob. I continue to peer around the corner of the counter, watching as he folds himself around the rifle again as blood oozes down his arm and after a few seconds where it seems like everything slows down Matrix-style, he pulls the trigger again.
And then…everything goes dead silent for one beat.
I expect him to talk to whoever is on the other side of that radio and say something. Instead he tosses the rifle down and rushes over to me.
“Are you all right?” he murmurs in this unbelievably calm voice.
I gape at him, tears streaming down my face. “You—you just fucking got shot?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He reaches out for me, his good hand cupping my cheek. “Violet, talk to me, sweetheart. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I sob, then launch myself into his arms. “No, I’m not hurt. But you are!”
“It’s okay,” he says, but his voice goes from calm to faint and it scares the shit out of me. When I pull back, his blood smears all over my front and his normally golden skin is…pale.
“Rhys,” I gasp.
“Maybe hit something serious this time,” he says, his brow furrowing with pain. “Bleeding…a lot.”
“Oh my God.” I snatch a dish towel from the counter and shove it hard against his shoulder. It’s in far, the wound. Way too close to his chest. “Oh my God.”
His eyelids flutter a little. “Vi…”
You need to hold your shit together, I snap at myself. He needs you.
“Hold it tight, Rhys,” I say, grateful my voice doesn’t waver. Then I scramble to my feet and sprint for my bedroom, where my phone is. His blood starts to cool against me.
I grab the phone and dial 911 on the way back to him. I know he doesn’t have the strength to hold that towel on his wound, and indeed, it’s fallen to the floor. I shove it back against his shoulder.
“I need an ambulance for an officer,” I tell the operator who answers. I give my address and explain what’s been happening outside. “He’s a police officer and he’s been hit and you need to get here now!”
The operator tells me in a kind voice to calm down and that she has ambulances already en route. I set the phone down and rush to the window. I don’t know how to work the radio and won’t even try. Officers are swarming into the house, but I see a few still standing back by the cruisers.
“Rhys is hit!” I scream out the window. “Help! Help me!”
The officers turn and stare up at me for only a fraction of a second before they tear across the street to my building. I shout my apartment number and hope they hear it. Then I rush to the door and prop it open with my foot while I stretch out next to Rhys.
“’S okay,” he mumbles. He looks like a sleepy little boy. “’S not that bad.”
“They’re coming,” I tell him, my voice wobbling now. “The ambulance and the other cops. They’re gonna come get you, okay? You’re going to be okay.”
“Thank you, sweet,” he whispers, eyes closing.
I smack his cheek, hard. “Don’t go to sleep, Rhys!” If he’s internally bleeding, which please God no, sleep is a death sentence.
His eyelids flutter again. “Okay.”
“Talk to me,” I plead desperately.
“I liked your story,” he whispers. “A lot. I love you too, Vi.”
My heart explodes.
Then the officers arrive—with the EMTs in tow.
They politely sweep me aside and I stand well back, my bloody fists balled together in front of my face. I sway side to side as I watch them load him up, asking him questions and reassuring him he’ll be okay. They carry him out of the apartment.
My knees shake.
One of the officers hangs back—I think he’s maybe a detective. He’s tall and really handsome, and wears a big black vest on the outside of his street clothes.
“Hey,” he says warmly to me.
I look at him mutely, fists still in front of my mouth.
“I’m Detective Saint Rivers,” he continues. “Rhys is a good buddy of mine.”
I pull my hands away from my face. “Is he going to be all right?” I ask hoarsely, tears finally spilling out of my eyes.
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “They’re gonna make damn sure of it.”
I close my eyes. “What happened?”
“Man across the street was holding his family hostage. The threat has been neutralized.”
“What does that mean? Did Rhys kill him?”
He eyes me, and I can practically read his mind that he’s about to tell me something he’s not supposed to. “He’s not dead, but seriously wounded. However, his family is safe. Rhys is a hero.”
A big lump settles in my throat.
Detective Rivers pats my shoulder. “You must be terrified. Is there somewhere you can go? A friend you can stay with? One of us can give you a ride if you need one.” He gestures around the apartment. “We’ll need to do a short investigation of this area, since he shot from here.”
“What…what do I do about the glass?” I ask in a small voice.
“I got a pal who has a window repair business. I’ll have him take care of it.”
“Is that…standard procedure?”
<
br /> “No,” Detective Rivers says, “but when we loaded Rhys on the stretcher, he told me to take care of you, or he’d kick my ass. I don’t want any problems, so.” He shrugs. “Get a few things together, call a friend, and then plan to come back here in twenty-four hours, all right?”
I don’t actually want to trouble my friends with this, and I need some time to myself to think and process things. In my room, I change out of my bloody shirt and drop it in the hamper, then stare at it for a moment.
I dress, grab clothes and toiletries, my laptop and charger, and my car keys. “I can drive,” I tell Detective Rivers quietly. Am I in shock? “I’m just gonna grab a hotel room.”
He frowns. “You sure?”
“Yep.” I step out into the hallway. “Um, do your…do your thing. Twenty-four hours, right?” He nods. “Okay, thank you.” I turn on my heel and walk quickly down the hall.
“Hey, wait,” he calls, but I keep going, my head in a full-on tumult.
I really shouldn’t drive, but I drive to a nice hotel downtown and I think there’s some dialogue with a front-desk concierge, because a few blurry moments go by—could have been hours for all I know—and then I’m sitting on a lush king-size bed and there’s a room service tray in front of me with a huge piece of chocolate cake.
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.
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.
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 call
ing 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.
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.
