And just like that, I’m watching his broad-shouldered, perfect-assed form head down the hallway without another word.
What the hell was that? I ask myself as I climb back into my Tahoe and drive to the address of the domestic Morgan is caught up at. She needs backup. Apparently the guy won’t leave the house, and there are kids involved. They’re trying to ascertain if he has a firearm, and it sounds like the Conflict Management Team is one step from being called in.
Why was Brynne so standoffish to me? I brought her phone; I thought she’d be thrilled to get it back. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since we separated after swimming across the bay. I’ve obsessed over this new book, and my agent is pissed I’ve put the other one on hold, but it’s all coming fast and furious. I wanted to show her a draft of it on Friday after our awards ceremony—I want to make sure I have her blessing, but I’m not sure she will give it to me.
Maybe everything that happened between us was simply due to the perfect storm of crazy emotions and stress. Maybe there was never anything between us. If anyone knows how people behave differently when they’re in a crisis situation, it’s me. Case in point: this dude at the domestic I’m headed to is probably a level-headed guy most of the time, and something has set him off. He’s taking it out on his wife. It sucks, but humans are unpredictable, rash, and let’s face it, selfish at times.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to get here,” Morgan snarls when I pull up. She’s got the woman and the kids in the front yard. The woman is crying with her face buried in her palms, but when she glances up for a moment, it’s obvious she has a black eye.
I take Morgan aside to ask if there is anything I need to know. She shakes her head, confirms there aren’t any firearms registered to either party, and tells me to be careful. Awesome. I’m glad she got the rest of the family out of the house, though, and didn’t try to deal with the guy herself. She’s tiny. I’m not.
“Mr. Bratcher?” I call out as I cautiously move through the foyer. I clear the kitchen and living room area, then head down the hallway where the bedrooms are. “Mr. Bratcher? I’d like to speak with you please. I’m Corporal Everson. I just want to have a word with you, and I need you to vacate the premises immediately. Please come on out so we can talk.”
I pause for a moment, listening for any sign of him in one of the rooms. I draw my weapon. I have a bad feeling about this. I hear a car pull up outside, and I don’t know if it’s the Conflict Management Team or if it’s the grandmother, who was going to come pick up the kids. From the window in the bathroom, which is the only door open in the hallway, I can hear kids squealing and some female voices. Sounds like it’s the grandmother. Sure wish CMT would get here.
Part of me wants to go back outside and wait for CMT. The other part of me just wants to find this guy and talk him down myself, get him into custody and get the hell out of here. I open the first door on my right. The light is on, but no one is in there. It looks like one of the kids’ rooms. There’s another door just past it, and I have a feeling it’s the other kid’s room. I open the door, and sure enough, it’s a nursery with a crib and baseball-themed décor.
“Do you like baseball, Mr. Bratcher?” I ask, moving toward the door at the end of the hallway. It has to be the master bedroom, and he must be in there. “You like the Orioles? I’m a big Orioles fan. They’re not doing too hot so far this year, are they?”
I pause and wait for a response, hoping I’ve bought enough time for CMT to show up. I don’t hear anything. Not the woman, not Morgan, and I think the grandmother just pulled out of the driveway with the kids in tow. Now would be a great time for Morgan to come in and check on me.
My heart is pounding as I consider what to do. I think about Brynne and how she faced her fear of sharks to swim the bay so we could call 9-1-1 just a few days ago. Thinking about how motivated she was to help everyone left behind at camp, and how she stopped to encourage me to keep swimming makes my heart swell with admiration. Even if nothing else happens between the two of us, I admire the hell out of her. She’s pretty badass. I’ve always been drawn to the quiet, mousy girls. Maybe it’s because I lacked the confidence to handle someone as self-assured and independent as Brynne. But I think I’m ready. I never had much luck with the sweet girls, and they ended up being clingy as hell. I can’t imagine Brynne being clingy at all. Hell, she didn’t even act like she really wanted my number.
The fact that I’m thinking about her guts and brains and not her boobs or ass is a pretty incredible thing. I mean, she is gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. But the part of her I like the most is the part inside that fiery red-headed skull of hers.
“Mr. Bratcher, I’m opening the door now. Hands in the air where I can see them!”
I turn the doorknob and start to make my way inside when I’m knocked off my feet and right onto my ass in a split second. A thick, inky black cloud hovers over my eyes as the pain radiates from the back of my head down my spine. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and my stomach feels like I was punched by a gorilla.
I hear the man’s footsteps echo down the hall like I’m hearing them underwater, my brain is so thick and woozy. I want to warn Morgan that he’s coming outside, but I’m having trouble getting my bearings, let alone lifting my head. Dig deep, Everson, I tell myself. What would Brynne the Dolphin do if a big, bad shark got in her way?
My head fills with cartoon images of dolphins and sharks as I roll myself over to my aching stomach. The pain is excruciating, but it doesn’t matter. I need to get out there before something happens to Morgan and Mrs. Bratcher. Then, suddenly, the pain eases as my body floods with adrenaline. I remember the feeling from the weekend all too well. At least this time I don’t have to swim through freezing water. I simply have to put one foot in front of the other on solid ground.
I immediately realize he knocked my gun out of my hand. And it’s gone. There’s shouting in the yard out front. I don’t have much time.
I bolt down the hallway, grabbing my taser at the same time. It all happens so fast, I don’t think I even breathe. It’s all in one swift motion, all my training taking over without any hesitation or interference from my mind.
I launch the taser probes as soon as I see he has the gun at his side. He’s shouting something to his wife when one hits him in the thigh and one in the butt. Great shot, Everson, I barely have time to think as he topples down the wooden steps, convulsing, until he lands in a heap on the grass below.
Morgan runs and snatches the gun from where he tossed it next to the bushes. Mrs. Bratcher is screaming, her hand over her mouth, shaking almost as intensely as her husband is. I get him cuffed before he can start to move again. As I’m bending over to fasten the cuffs, I hear Morgan gasp behind me. “What the hell happened to you, Everson?”
“What do you mean?” I don’t bother turning around. She rushes toward me to help get our suspect on his feet.
“You have blood running down your collar—”
“Twenty-nine-year-old male with head injury incoming,” Barb alerts me as I down my third cup of coffee of the day. The Tuesday Fun continues, I muse as I head toward the ambulance entrance. Then she adds, “It’s a state trooper.”
My heart races off so fast, it feels like there’s a hummingbird in my chest. I have this terrible feeling… I run down the hall just as they’re bringing him in, and the very first thing my eyes fall on is the gold nameplate that reads Christopher Everson on his chest. Oh god. How did I know?
“What happened?” I quiz the paramedic as we start to wheel him toward the exam room. I can’t believe this is the second time in only a month that he’s ended up in the ER from a work-related injury. Maybe he does need to consider full-time writing!
“We aren’t sure exactly, but he definitely hit his head. Probably needs stitches.”
I look down into his face, willing him to open his eyes, but he’s passed out cold. “For fuck’s sake, Everson. How do you get yourself into these situations?”<
br />
“How’s he doing?” I ask Anita, who has just finished her first rounds of the afternoon.
“So you guys are together, aren’t you?” She flashes me a devious grin. “When did it happen? I want to see if I won the pool.”
“You can’t be serious.” I roll my eyes as I grab the chart out of her hands. “We are not together. I simply asked how my patient is doing, like any good doctor would.”
“Well, he’s talking at least,” she answers. “He kept going on and on about some dolphin that’s afraid of sharks. Didn’t make much sense to me.” She shrugs. “Something about a new book?”
“Oh!” I gasp. Apparently he’s revealed his secret identity to the nurses. Way to go, Chris.
As soon as she turns to head in to see another patient, Barb comes out of Chris’s room. “What the hell is wrong with that dude?” she questions, shaking her head. “He keeps telling me that you’re in his new book. You’re a dolphin or some shit? Any idea what that’s all about?”
“How much did you give him?” I flip through his chart to look at the dose.
“Wait a second,” she says, her face lighting up from the invisible light bulb illuminating in her head. “Is Officer Everson the local children’s author? Uh…what’s his name? C.J. Evans?”
“Who?” I try to play dumb.
“Oh, there’s a local children’s author who writes all these books with different animals…I thought maybe—”
“I better go check on him,” I say, pushing past her.
His room is quiet, and his eyes are glazed over, half-open, half-shut. His head is bandaged up, and they’ve wrangled him into a highly unflattering white hospital gown with little blue designs on it. They want to send him upstairs for observation, but I don’t like the idea of him not being right where I can keep an eye on him. Is that weird?
“Brynne,” he mumbles, “My new book is going to be about dolphins. Thank you for being my dolphin, Brynne. Thank you so much.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I ask, leaning over him to check the machines he’s hooked up to.
“You’re so badass, Brynne. Will you marry me?” I can barely make out his words, they’re so badly slurred.
“Unless you want everyone to know about your books, I suggest you keep quiet, okay?” I choose to ignore his marriage proposal. You can’t hold someone responsible for what they say when they’re doped up on painkillers, right?
“How many stitches did he have to get?” a female voice asks from the curtain. I turn around to see a petite brunette state trooper standing behind me.
“Staples,” I correct her. “I think there are five, but he’s going to be okay. He’s just a little loopy at the moment.”
“Morgan!” Chris exclaims. “Morgan, this is the woman who saved my life, Dr. Brynne Miller. She’s my dolphin!” The words ooze out of his mouth like the filling in a jelly donut when you bite into it.
She flashes me a confused look. “Loopy is an understatement,” she chuckles, her eyebrow arched.
I shrug. “Well, everyone responds to medication differently.”
“Copy that,” she retorts. “He actually saved my life. And probably the victim of the domestic we were responding to as well.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that asshole hit him with a baseball bat right in the gut. Chris hit his head on the metal threshold in the doorway. Then the dude stole his gun. Everson managed to follow him out of the house and taze his ass just in time. It was pretty incredible. Then he passed the fuck out right after I pointed out that his head was bleeding.”
“Wow, that’s great, Chris. Good job!” I lean over to pat him on the arm, and a flash of something flickers across his uniformed comrade’s face. Jealousy, maybe?
“But you’re the dolphin, Brynne!” he shouts so boisterously, I try to shush him. “Hey, that even rhymes! I was going to name the dolphin Danielle, but maybe I will just call her Brynne anyway!”
“What the hell is he talking about?” His colleague’s eyes narrow as she turns to me, waiting for me to decipher his slurred speech.
“I have no idea. Maybe something about us swimming to shore over the weekend,” I suggest.
“Oh, that’s right! That was you? I read about that in the news. That’s awesome! You guys saved an old lady and rescued like fifty stranded people, didn’t you?”
“Brynne faced her fear of sharks,” Chris bellows with only slightly more lucidity. “She was so brave, and I figured if she could be brave, I could be brave too!”
I shrug again. “No idea what he’s talking about,” I lie. “I’m sure he’ll be fine after he sleeps it off.”
“Thanks for taking such good care of him,” the young woman says. She can’t be more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and she’s quite pretty. I see her name badge says Madison Morgan. Very alliterative.
“Of course, I’m just doing my job,” I answer, trying to keep my tone professional. Struggling to, in fact, as I watch her pace closer to the bed and take Chris’s hand into hers.
“Rest up and I’ll check on you later, okay?” she whispers, like I’m not going to hear her in this confined space. Then she presses a kiss to his cheek.
He doesn’t answer her, but he’s wearing a big, dopey grin on his face.
That’s when it hits me. There’s something more than just professional stuff between them. They are more than colleagues.
Damn it. I should have known. Yup, it’s just like I thought—like all the cops I’ve known. No wonder he was so cold to me earlier today when he returned my phone. He’s just like the other cops I’ve known. They’re all players.
Twenty-Three
My head is pounding. It’s like a sadistic carpenter is building a mansion inside my skull, hammering away like he’s getting paid by the nail. There’s an IV in my arm which I have half a mind to rip out since it’s clearly not helping with the pain. I reach up to survey the situation and find my head wrapped in bandages. I have a sneaking suspicion my head has been shaved. Great.
“What time is it?” I moan. “Where’s my phone?”
A nurse pokes her blonde head in. “Good evening, Corporal Everson, how are you feeling?”
“What time is it? Where’s my phone?” I repeat.
“It’s almost six,” she answers, “and I believe all of your belongings are in this bag over here.” She points to a plastic bag on a chair by the window.
“Where’s Brynne?”
“Who?” She smiles sweetly at me as she starts the blood pressure cuff on my arm.
“Dr. Miller,” I clarify as the band tightens my bicep in its death grip.
“Oh, she’s down in the ER, right? I can page her if you’d like.”
“And where am I?”
“You’ve been admitted for overnight observation. We did some scans, wanted to make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding from where you got hit with the bat.”
“Bat?”
“You don’t remember? Trooper Morgan said the suspect hit you with a baseball bat.”
No wonder I feel like I got run over by a truck. The vague memory of me asking the suspect if he likes baseball tingles in the back of my mind as I make the connection that he hit me with a baseball bat. My brain must be okay because the irony is not lost on me.
“Do you think you could get my phone for me?” I ask the nurse.
“Sure,” she says after inputting my blood pressure in the computer. She retrieves the phone from my bag and lays it in my open hand. “Anything else I can get you, sir?”
“Just a little privacy, please,” I say, matching her sugar-coated tone. “And the doctor on call. I want to be discharged as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Corporal Everson, but I think they need to keep you overnight. I’ll page the doctor, though.”
I grumble a thank you and scan my phone. There are like a dozen messages from various members of my shift, including my sergeant. He says he stopped by earlier, but I was asleep. Morg
an’s text reads: So that doctor is pretty! Looks like you’re in good hands.
I don’t remember Morgan visiting either. Crap. I was hoping to see a text from Brynne, but no such luck.
I feel like a caged rat at the moment. All I want to do is get home to Crockett and my book. I was almost finished with the book I’ve decided to title Brynne the Brave Dolphin, and I can’t wait to show it to Brynne. I definitely want to make sure she approves before sending it to my agent.
The door swings open, and a forty-something-year-old doctor with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper goatee pops his head in. “Is this where our local celebrity is convalescing?” he questions as he strides into the room.
I squint as I try to make sense of his statement. “Not a celebrity, just a local cop who got laid out with a bat.” I try to laugh, but it hurts like hell. My hands fly up to my abs, which feel like they are bruised all the way into my guts.
“Local cop and children’s book author, am I right?” He grins at me as he checks all the monitors and wires I’m hooked up to.
My jaw drops down as my body floods with chemicals. I think my fight or flight reflex has just been activated. “Author?” I question, going with the playing dumb strategy to begin with.
“Oh, it’s all over the hospital—and the local news by now, I think. WBOC has a reporter outside clamoring to talk to you, but we wanted to make sure you were up for it first.”
“WBO-WHAT?!” I think I just shrieked like a—I don’t even know, an animal of some sort.
“The local news station,” he clarifies. “Are you up for more visitors? I know you have the big hero’s welcome in Fenwick on Friday, but it sounds like the press can’t get enough of you. You’ve had quite the week, huh?”
My head is pounding so hard, I think I’m only hearing every other word this guy is speaking. “I’m sorry,” I apologize to him. He seems nice. But he has to be on some sort of drug. I mean, doctors can be on drugs, right?
Or I’M still on drugs. Yeah, that makes more sense. I’m clearly still on drugs. I’m hallucinating this entire conversation.
Badge Bunny Page 22
