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  RHYS

  A Badge Bunnies Novel Book 2

  Mazzy King

  MZK Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Mazzy King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  RHYS: Badge Bunnies 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

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  Sneak Peek of SAINT: Badge Bunnies 3

  About the Author

  Also by Mazzy King

  RHYS: Badge Bunnies 2

  A Steamy Alpha Bad Boy Cop Romance

  The good Bad Boys of Ridge City…and the women who love them.

  Put your hands where he can feel them…

  Rhys

  I was just trying to do my job—as a SWAT officer, I’m called to the worst of the worse situations. This hostage crisis is no different. When I knocked on a random apartment door across the street, it was only to provide me a better vantage point to wait the situation out. I never expected the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen to answer the door. And it looks like it’s going to be a long wait…I know of one way I’d love to pass the time.

  Violet

  For a romance author, my love life has been in the dumps lately. But it was like something out of one of my favorite dirty, sexy romances when the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life—who happens to be a SWAT officer—shows up at my door and tells me he needs to use my place. Being in close quarters with him for possibly hours on end is fodder for my novels…but I want to see how far I can take my research.

  Rhys: Badge Bunnies 2 is an insta-love, happily-ever-after, STEAMY romance. No cliffhangers, no cheating. This is a standalone story part of the BADGE BUNNIES series.

  1

  Rhys Hartley

  It’s supposed to be my day off, but criminals never seem to give a shit about that.

  I had a whole day planned for myself—couple hours at the gym followed by a shower. Lunch with my older sister—our weekly ritual—and then a few relaxing hours at the shooting range. But I know better than to make anything more than fluid plans, because shit can hit the fan at any given moment—like right now. At least I got to eat lunch with my sis.

  I pull up to a house on a quiet street—or what was once a quiet street—just around the corner from a coffeeshop I’ve visited at least three dozen times. The call came in about ten minutes ago, so I’ve made good time, considering my place is on the other side of town.

  Ridge City police cars line the street. The red-and-blue lights on top of them make it seem like some kind of weird, outdoor nightclub. There are officers standing in clusters a safe distance from the house that’s the center of the chaos.

  I park down the street and hop out of my car. I’m in my black cargo pants and boots, but my SWAT shirt isn’t quite buttoned yet. I hastily finish the job and then slide on my heavy bulletproof tactical vest that carries all my toys—cuffs, radio, extra magazines, an extra Glock. I notice an officer walking toward me as I strap on my helmet, slide on my protective eyewear, and double-check my thigh holster is strapped on securely. My other Glock, the bigger one, sits in the holster snugly.

  “Ready for the shitshow, brother?” Detective Saint Rivers asks me with a shit-eating grin. That’s really his name—Saint. His brother Jaxson, who I used to partner with when I was in patrol, is definitely the more “saintly” of the two.

  “All I heard is it’s a hostage situation. What’s the sitrep?” I ask. “And what are you doing out here? Don’t you have stolen cars to find and shit?”

  Saint lifts a shoulder, dragging a hand through his light brown hair. “I was in the area when dispatch put the call out. Figured I’d see if I could make myself useful, but now that SWAT’s here to save the day, I can probably head out.”

  I roll my eyes at the friendly jab, even though I am proud of fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming a SWAT officer. “You know anything?”

  “Guy going through a midlife crisis is holding his wife and teenage son hostage in the house. Threatening to blow everyone up via their gas line.” Saint shrugs. “Seems pretty fucked up. Most of the team is here—those of you who had the day off are still on the way.”

  We work a rotating schedule depending on our shifts. I work four ten-hour shifts and then get two days off. Today was supposed to have been the first of my two days—one of the rare occasions my two days off fall on Saturday and Sunday. A real, true, good old-fashioned weekend. So much for that, but…I took an oath to protect and serve. That oath did not include stipulations about if that included my days off or not.

  “All right.” I sigh. “Thanks, man.”

  Saint nods, claps me on the shoulder. He heads off down the street, where I assume his unmarked car is parked. “Stay safe, brother.”

  “Always.” I turn back toward the house, grab my automatic rifle, and head toward the scene. I meet up with my sergeant, who’s talking to another sergeant.

  “Hartley,” he says, catching sight of me. “Rivers catch you up on the situation?”

  I nod. “What are we thinking?”

  “We’re calling in the negotiator. Man in the house says he won’t talk to anyone but a negotiator.”

  “What does he want?”

  “No clue.” Sarge shrugs. “But this could take a while. I don’t think his family are in immediate danger, but he won’t let us talk to them or see them.” He thumbs toward a squat apartment building across the street from the house. “Why don’t you take that rifle and go across the street, see if you can get a better vantage point? I need eyes on the house. We may need to take a shot if he makes any unfriendly moves toward his family.”

  I nod. “On it.”

  It’s not unusual for us to need to commandeer space in times of crisis. I eye the best window to do what’s being asked of me. It’s four floors up—the top floor of the small building, and right in the middle.

  Besides, considering this is all happening right across the street from the apartment, I’m sure any tenant who’s home is watching. It won’t be a hard sell for the person whose door I knock on if they are home, and if they aren’t… Well, they’re going to come home to a surprise in the living room.

  I jog across the street and try the main entrance door. As I assumed, it’s locked. I scan the panel of buzzers, locating the fourth floor. There are apartments 400–410. I ring 405 because it’s in the middle, though it could very well face the back of the apartment. There’s no name listed beside the buzzer.

  Finally, I hear a little crackle of static.

  “Hello?” a female voice asks hesitantly.

  “I’m Sergeant Hartley from the Ridge City Police Department,” I say, my tone clipped. “There’s a hostage situation across the street. I’m sure you’ve seen. I need access to the building—specifically to a top-floor apartment that faces the house.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Miss?” I say, unable to keep the impatience out of my voice.

  “You want to come inside my apartment?” she says.

  I’m not sure if she’s seeking clarification or issuing an invite.

  Before I can ask, she continues, “My living room window literally faces the exact front of the house. If that’s what you need.”

  “That’s exactly what I need, miss. Please—the situation is potentially dire.”

  My response is a loud
buzzing noise, and then an electronic pop that indicates the door’s open. I pull it open and take the stairs all the way to the fourth floor. I locate 405, the apartment I buzzed, and rap on the door. Two minutes couldn’t have passed.

  “Um…who’s there?” The same familiar female voice is on the other side of the door.

  I’m impatient, and the question annoys me initially, but that quickly subsides. She’s just being safe and cautious, and I should encourage and commend that.

  “Sergeant Hartley, ma’am.”

  The sound of clicking and sliding comes from the other side of the door a moment before it’s pulled open.

  I find myself staring into a pair of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, blinking from behind a pair of large-frame black glasses.

  The most beautiful girl in the world stares up at me, and for a second, I can’t remember why I’m even here.

  2

  Violet Randall

  Since eight o’clock this fine morning, I’ve been sitting on my sofa in my small living room, trying to finish up my latest romance novel. Finish writing, that is—I’m an author, though most of the time, I feel like a total hack.

  My books sales have been picking up a lot lately, which is great, but also a little scary. I have fans now, who want more and more of my writing, and I don’t want to let them down. But the pressure is getting to me, and it’s getting to me in the form of writer’s block. Ugh. To compound the problem, I’m writing sexy romances—heavy on the sex. And considering I haven’t gotten laid in almost a year, it’s both difficult and also torturous to write sexy women and sexy men having sexy sex when I’m cuddling up to my body pillow every night.

  But about half an hour ago, I started becoming aware of a situation across the street. One police cruiser pulled up to a small family’s house, which in and of itself is kind of out of the ordinary for this neighborhood.

  I’m your classic introvert, so I haven’t really gotten to know any of my neighbors. But I’m keenly aware of everyone, because I like to spend my mornings drinking my coffee and reading the news on my phone sitting beside the picture window in my living room, and I like to people-watch. It’s interesting to me how everyone has their own little routine down pat and are so oblivious to the person next to them, so lost in their own world. I like to watch them, write about them, make them characters in stories they’ll never read, written by a person they never met.

  So, I know who the guy across the street is, if not by name. He has a wife and a son who looks to be around thirteen or fourteen. He’s not of driving age because he walks to the corner to wait for the school bus every weekday morning. But since today is Saturday, I like to imagine he slept in late.

  Then the cops showed up. And then more cops showed up.

  And then a cop rang my buzzer.

  His request is completely crazy to me, though not necessarily out of the question. I mean, I’m sure he’s done this before. But it’s never happened to me before, and the thought of allowing a stranger—even a cop—inside my home does not make me happy. But I’d be way less happy if I knew something terrible happened to the family across the street, and he could’ve done something about it had I just let him in.

  When I open the door, I’m so not prepared for what awaits me on the other side.

  He’s wearing a helmet and protective goggle-like things, but even they can’t mask how freaking gorgeous this guy is. Tall—though, at five-three, everybody’s tall to me—and built like a hero from one of my stories, with sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes. His skin is golden tan and his lips are full and tempting. He’s wearing a vest with all kinds of gear on it, there’s a gun strapped to one muscular thigh, and he’s holding a giant black rifle, the sight of which frightens me.

  “Miss,” he says after a moment of silence.

  I jolt out of my stupor. God, was I just standing here like a mute dolt this whole time? I hastily step back, pulling the door with me.

  “Yeah,” I say, shoving my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I got Lasik a few years ago, but I wear these to block the blue lights from my computer screen. Of course, that could all be bullshit, but better safe than sorry, right? Besides, they’re cute. “Come on in.”

  He immediately crosses the threshold and goes straight to the window. “Mind if I look around?”

  I stare at him in alarm, my head swimming. Between his hotness, his sexy body and that tight, round ass I ogled as I followed him in, and his request to look around my place, I’m caught off guard.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Another vantage point.”

  “Sure,” I reply, the word barely out of my face before he starts in the direction of my bedroom. I know my apartment isn’t that big or anything, but how the hell did he know it was that way? “Is the living room not going to work?”

  That I’m asking questions as if this is totally normal and not out of left fucking field makes me feel a little hysterical. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I could really use a shot of whiskey all of a sudden.

  The officer comes out of my bedroom. “Living room will work,” he says, hardly sparing me a glance. “Just needed to check on another room, in case.”

  “Will it work?” I watch him rest the rifle against the windowsill, place a radio on the coffee table nearby, and check his phone. Maybe I should stop asking questions.

  “This is best,” he mutters, flicking his thumb up and down the screen. I highly doubt he’s checking Facebook. He picks up the rifle and uses the arm of the easy chair nearby to create a stand of sorts, then messes with the sight on top, peering across the street through it. I wonder how sharp it is, and how much he can see.

  Then it hits me—he’s here to snipe the man across the street.

  “You’re gonna kill him?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  The officer lifts his head and glances at me for the first time since entering my apartment. Then he removes his helmet and eyewear.

  My knees go a little weak. He is fucking beautiful.

  He gazes at me for a long time, seemingly taking in every inch of me. I’m glad I at least showered this morning, but my dark-rooted blonde hair is in a loose braid over my shoulder, I’m wearing no makeup, and my outfit for this fine Saturday afternoon is a pair of soft pink leggings, over which I have on an oversized forest-green tunic with a deep V-neck…and, I recall with horror, only a thin lace bralette underneath that is providing my perky C-cups absolutely no support whatsoever.

  Sue me, I was relaxing at home today. I didn’t think the cops would come knocking on my door—least of all one who looks like this guy.

  I fold my arms over my chest. I’m ninety-nine percent certain his eyes lingered on my breasts a second ago and probably didn’t miss a beat that the early fall chill in the air is making my nipples stand out.

  “Are you?” I whisper. “Going to kill him?”

  “I don’t want to,” the officer says gravely, “but if he makes a wrong move toward the officers or his family, I have to.”

  I sit down hard on the sofa.

  “You might want to leave,” he adds in a gentle voice.

  I tighten my jaw. I definitely want to, but this is my apartment. “All due respect, but I live here. You’re, like, an invader.”

  His lips twist into a ghost of a smirk. “I promise, I won’t steal your things.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I reply, “and even if you tried to, I know where you work. But it’s still weird to leave a total stranger alone in my own home, even if you are supposedly a good guy.”

  His brow raises a little at “supposedly,” but he only resumes looking through his scope.

  “What’s your name?” he asks after another long silence.

  “Um…why?”

  He glances at me. “That a hard one?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m just not sure why you’re asking. You are the cops, after all.”

  He surprises me by chuckling. “Look, I might be here for a while. The
re’s no time limit on these situations. If you’re going to insist on staying here, then I should know whose home I have the pleasure of being in.” He pauses. “My name’s Rhys. Rhys Hartley.”

  His explanation seems reasonable, but I don’t like the idea that this could go on for a while. “Nice to meet you, Rhys. I’m Violet Randall. And how long do these things usually take?”

  Rhys shrugs. “I’ve seen them take an hour, and I’ve seen them take days. It just depends on what he asks the negotiator for. As well as a bunch of other factors.”

  Days?

  “Oh, no, no, no,” I say quickly. “You can’t be here for days. I have work to do.”

  He glances around, pausing on the open laptop and mug of hot tea beside it. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Oh, shit. The dreaded question. It’s always met with one of three reactions: confusion, derision, or the idea that I’m the next Stephen King. “I—I write.”

  He fiddles with the scope a little bit. “That’s cool. What do you write?”

  The second dreaded question. This one is usually met with one of the first two reactions. “Um. Romance.”

  Rhys glances at me. “Really?”

  My temper flares. “Romance is the number-one hottest-selling genre. Always has been, always will be. Why? Because romance fans believe in love. They believe in the happily-ever-after. And love is one of the most basic human emotions—”

  He draws his head back and holds up a hand. “I’m so not judging you. I think it’s cool. I don’t read romance personally, but I can see the appeal.”