Badge Bunny Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by K.L. Montgomery

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Mountains Wanted Publishing

  P.O. Box 1014

  Georgetown, DE 19947

  www.mountainswanted.com

  Cover Design by Teresa Conner of Wolfsparrow Publishing

  To everyone at Troop 7: please accept this dedication as a small token of my gratitude for all you do.

  And to all the Chrises who’ve passed through my life…I still think about all of you. Mostly fondly. Mostly.

  Table of Contents

  Brynne’s Metal/Rock Playlist

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by K.L. Montgomery

  Brynne’s Metal/Rock Playlist

  Wherever I May Roam – Metallica

  Back For More – Five Finger Death Punch

  Sweet Child o’ Mine – Guns N’ Roses

  Before I Forget – Slipknot

  Symphony of Destruction – Megadeth

  Down with the Sickness – Disturbed

  Crazy Train – Ozzy Osbourne

  So Far Away – Avenged Sevenfold

  The Trooper – Iron Maiden

  Bodies – Drowning Pool

  Falling in Love – Scorpions

  Pour Some Sugar on Me – Def Leppard

  Back in Black – AC/DC

  One

  “So, I wrestled that gator right out of the sinkhole and hog-tied it with some rope we had in the back of my Tahoe. It was probably every bit of six feet long! Then my buddy and I—”

  I pause my story when I sense a presence behind me. Hating to leave off in the middle of it, I whip around to see none other than my best friend, Andrew Clark.

  “Oh, heyyyyyy, Drew!” He knows as well as I do that’s not what really happened with the alligator. “How’s it going, man? This is Ashley.” I may have also exaggerated a bit about the size.

  “Nice to meet you; I’m Drew,” my buddy says, shaking my date’s hand then flashing me a smirk that clearly says busted.

  “Yeah, we just call Chris ‘The Crocodile Hunter,’” Drew continues, looking at me more than Ashley.

  “But you said it was an alligator?” Her face wrinkles up in confusion.

  She isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean, which probably explains why I’m breaking out the alligator-in-a-sinkhole story from Drew’s home improvement adventure gone wild a couple summers ago. It’s hard to believe it’s been so long since he and Sonnet flipped the beach house they co-inherited, then fell in love and decided to keep it for themselves.

  “Sonnet is supposed to meet me after work,” Drew shares as we both ignore Ashley’s question. She doesn’t seem to notice.

  I feel relief wash over me. If Sonnet shows up, the collective IQ of our gathering will definitely shoot up a couple hundred points. She’s Drew’s fiancée, and she is smart as hell. These days she’s a science teacher, but before that, she was an honest-to-God rocket scientist at NASA.

  “Drew owns Delmarva Art Connection,” I tell Ashley, “and he’s also the lead singer of The Gallant Misfits.” Her eyes start to grow with recognition. “But don’t go getting all googly-eyed over him, ‘cause he’s engaged.”

  “The good ones always are,” she giggles, winking at Drew.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. This date has been an unmitigated disaster, and I have no idea what I was thinking when I agreed to go through with it.

  I hadn’t gone out with a woman for a few months now. I think my date throwing a beer in my face at the Delaware State Police Christmas party may have turned me off from the whole dating scene. All I did was make a joke about some of my “clients” having “summer teeth.” You know, “Some are there, some are not.” I guess that was the wrong thing to say because apparently my date was missing a couple herself. I hadn’t even noticed! Granted, I’d joined my comrades in a few rounds of shots by that point. My entire troop will never let me live it down, either. They’ve been calling me “Summer Teeth” ever since.

  “Hey, we’d love to have you and Sonnet join us.” I raise my eyebrows, trying to convey how desperately I need his help to get through this painfully boring—just painful is more accurate—date I’m on.

  Ashley stands up on her long, slender legs, an uneasy smile growing on her face as she flips her wavy tresses behind her shoulder. “Actually, I need to get going.” She gives us a fake yawn. “I have an early morning tomorrow.” Yep, she’s just delivered an Academy Award-winning performance.

  I know she’s making it up, but I couldn’t care less. She’s obviously just as miserable as I am. I give her a smile which probably looks more like relief than regret. “Oh, sorry to hear that. Another time maybe.”

  Her face twists up with another confused look, one I’ve seen quite a bit this evening, but then she realizes we’re doing that social euphemism thing where we pretend there’ll be a second date.

  “Sure, have a good night. Nice to meet you, Drew,” she says to him, and then without even so much as a peck on my cheek, she’s out of my life forever.

  WHEW.

  “Dodged a bullet there, man,” I tell my buddy as soon as she’s out of earshot, which doesn’t take long because The Crooked Hammock is loud. It’s Friday night; what do you expect in a beach town?

  “She was cute but—” Drew pauses a second to flag down a waiter, “—she didn’t seem like she had much upstairs. How did you meet her, anyway?”

  “She’s Morgan’s sister,” I answer on a sigh. “You know, my shiftmate.”

  “Madison Morgan?” Drew’s eyes widen. “The one we went to school with?”

  “Yeah, Ashley is her little sister. Like five years younger,” I explain. “And I lost a bet we made at work, so I had to take her out.”

  “Wow, what did Madison have to do if you won?” Drew questions.

  “Madison would’ve had to go out with me.” I sigh again, which quickly becomes a chuckle once Drew starts to bellow with laughter.

  “Walking up to two guys who are cracking up laughing is always a bit unnerving,” says a female voice, breaking us out of our side-splitting amusement.

  “Hey, Sonnet.” I notice her first, then Drew straightens up his shoulders and slings his arm around her waist. They make a sickeningly sweet couple. I’d love to have my own version of Sonnet—well, except for the fact that she’s a little bossy. I can’t believe I’m about to turn thirty, and I still haven’t settled down. I’m one of the last of my friends to still be single. But, as tonight has proven, I might need to kiss a lot of frogs before I meet Miss Right.

  “What’s so funny, anyway?” She arches one dark brow before taking the chair next to Drew.

  I wave my hand through the air dismissively. “Nothing, nothing, just work stuff.” I do always have the best work stories, though. “How have you been?”

  “Good, good. Can’t complain.” Sonnet’s dark eyes tra
ipse up and down my face, like she’s trying to solve a mystery. “Hey, something looks different about you… What is it?”

  I forgot to take out my contacts. Crap on a cracker, how could I be so stupid?

  “Are those…,” she scrutinizes my eyes like a woman who used to design rocket parts for NASA, “…colored contacts?”

  It’s so dark in the restaurant, I don’t even know how she can tell. “Uh, no. Why?” I lie.

  So I have these aquamarine contacts I sometimes wear on dates. And for other “appearances,” but that is certainly none of her business.

  “I don’t remember your eyes being that color. I thought they were hazel,” she insists. She looks over to her fiancé for verification, but he just shrugs.

  “I don’t really pay much attention to the color of dudes’ eyes, okay?” Drew protests, palms out and shaking his head.

  “So, do you know this band playing tonight?” I ask Drew, completely ignoring Sonnet’s weirdly accurate observation. Why the hell does she know my eye color? That’s kinda creepy, if you ask me. Not only is she bossy, but she’s also kind of a know-it-all. Goes with the rocket scientist thing, I think.

  I like smart women, don’t get me wrong. Miss Ashley Morgan, the brunette who practically ran from the table earlier this evening, is much too dingy for my tastes. But on the other hand, I think someone of Sonnet’s intellectual stature might drive me crazy. Of course, Drew is a big nerd too. Those two were valedictorian and salutatorian of our high school class, you know. They were meant for each other.

  I’m not a brainiac like them. I mean, I’m no slouch, but I definitely wasn’t the National Honor Society type. I was the comic book reading, constantly doodling in my notebook instead of reading type of kid. I became a cop because it’s the closest job you can get to being a Super Hero.

  Drew shakes his head about the band. “I think they’re from Philly.” He makes a face like he’s unimpressed. “Good thing they didn’t try to hire The Gallant Misfits. We’re booked up for the next six months, you know.”

  Sonnet laughs. “Yeah, as in they’ve got three gigs lined up, one of which is our wedding.” She turns and gives me a sharp look, like she’s trying to let me know she hasn’t forgotten the contact situation. “Speaking of which, have you found a date to the wedding yet?”

  My nose scrunches up. “Isn’t your wedding in two months?”

  “Yeah, I figure you need at least that much time, maybe more.” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in her tone. She actually means every word.

  “BURN!” Drew shouts and gives his fiancée a little fist bump.

  I roll my eyes. “I just need enough time to decide which lucky lady it will be.”

  “Uh huh.” Sonnet rolls her eyes back at me twice as hard. “You can come stag if you want, Chris. It’s fine. It’ll save us, what, honey? Fifty dollars at least. Not to mention savings at the open bar if your date is a lush.”

  “Most of the girls he’s dated have been,” Drew joins in, and next thing I know, the engaged couple has ganged up on me. “We all know your type, Chris: short, sweet, and can’t hold their liquor. Oh, and clingy, let’s not forget clingy.”

  Okay, so he may have a point. I’ve had semi-serious relationships with approximately six women since we graduated from high school, and they’ve all been under 5’2” and seemed to be sweet, almost mousy types—until they started drinking. And then all bets were off. Every time I pull over a woman for a DUI, my shiftmates tease me about it being one of my ex-girlfriends.

  Oh, and don’t get me started on the clingy thing. I’ve had nothing but Level 2000 Clingers in my dating career.

  “You know what?” I stand up, growing tired of the abuse. They both look at me as if they can’t believe I’m upset over their playful jest. “I’m outta here. I have stuff to do anyway.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Sonnet questions, clearly intrigued. “What does a bachelor cop do on a Friday night other than hang out with their friends at the local watering hole?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I flash my (yes, fake) aquamarine eyes at her. I give Drew a hearty slap on the back and head out, daring myself to make it clear outside without looking back. I’m victorious.

  I do have things to do at home. That’s no lie. But there’s no way in hell I’m telling Sonnet what those things are. Not Drew either. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Gotta get back on the wagon. Yep, that’s my MO after a bad breakup. I give myself approximately 3.4 days to wallow in misery and self-pity, then I’m back to normal self.

  It’s not that Todd was a bad guy. It’s just that he was a…

  Well, I’m not one to mince words. He was a sexist pig, and I don’t think he could handle the fact that I’m a doctor. That means I have more education than he does, and I make more money than him. A guy’s gotta be secure enough to handle that, and let’s face it, not every guy’s up to the task.

  I met Todd the way I meet approximately 85% of the men I date: in the course of my job. I’m a doctor in the Emergency Room at Lewes Hospital in beautiful Lewes, Delaware, and you wouldn’t believe some of the shit I see in there. And a lot of the times the shit comes in handcuffed and in the custody of a cop.

  I can’t help it if a man in uniform does crazy things to me. It’s not like I’m some sort of rarity—just ask any woman which men are the hottest, and the answer will almost invariably come back “men in uniform”: firefighters, soldiers, sailors, and, my personal favorite, the thin blue line.

  I’ve dated so many police officers since I moved to Delaware that my friends call me “Badge Bunny.” I’d never heard that term before, but apparently it’s a woman who has a real thing for cops. I think, though, after Todd, I’m completely cured of my obsession with men in blue. They always turn out to be assholes; they’re usually insecure, self-absorbed egomaniac players.

  Anita, one of the nurses, gives me a curt nod as I emerge from my twenty-minute cat nap in the lounge. I’m groggy as hell, but nothing a caffeine IV won’t fix. Not literally, of course, but I do down a couple gulps of the nectar of the gods before going to check on my patient. The labs are back, and I peruse the chart before giving the young woman the good news that she’s not pregnant.

  An aside: Why do women come to the ER for pregnancy tests? I have no freakin’ clue, but stop that shit!

  I expect her to be ecstatic, but instead she gives me an incredulous look. “Then why am I puking my guts up?” she demands as though there are no other possible explanations for vomiting.

  “You probably have a stomach virus,” I tell her, affixing a smile on my face to avoid an eyeroll. “Drink plenty of fluids and get some rest. If you can’t keep anything down, not even water, and you start to feel dehydrated, come back, okay?”

  Then she rolls her eyes at me. I breeze out of the room without even giving her the benefit of a reaction. It’s amazing to me how ungrateful patients are sometimes. But then others are completely amazing. There is this little old couple who is in here all the time, the Larsons, and their daughter has brought me flowers, cookies—even the occasional homemade pie—as tokens of their appreciation. Now those are the patients who make this job rewarding!

  Anita nudges me on the arm as I start to head into the next room. “Stab wound incoming!”

  My heart picks up its pace. I always get this incredible surge of adrenaline when a critical patient arrives. Between that and the caffeine, I’m feeling all revved up as the EMTs wheel in a gurney carrying a young woman screaming her head off. They start to give me the information as my eyes trail up and down her body searching for the source of her pain.

  “He stabbed me! He fucking stabbed me!” she shouts at the precise moment my eye lands on the culprit: there’s what appears to be a steak knife sticking out of her upper thigh. Ouch! That’s going to leave a nasty scar.

  I direct the nurses to give her something for the pain, then we get her stabilized and set up. The knife comes out; she gets some stitches. Yep, all in a
day’s work. I step outside the room and walk almost directly into the state trooper standing right outside.

  “Oh, excuse me.” It comes out a little gruffer than I planned, but he is pretty much blocking the entire doorway. These guys have no concept of personal space. Geez. “You with Mrs. DeVanto?”

  “Yeah, just waiting for the doctor,” he says, straightening his stance. His chest puffs out as he looks at me out of light hazel eyes.

  “Uh, I AM the doctor,” I fire back. “Dr. Miller.”

  Those hazel eyes dance across my face, down my body quick as a flash, then back up to me. “Aren’t you the nurse I saw last week when I was in here with that OD?”

  I feel my body seize up with rage, funneling up my throat and into all of my extremities like molten lava.

  I hate being mistaken for a nurse. HATE!

  Not that there’s anything wrong with being a nurse. Not at all. Nurses are amazing! But my male colleagues who are in their thirties like me never get mistaken for nurses. It’s just more sexist bullshit.

  The hazel-eyed state trooper cocks his head and gives me a little smirk. “I could have sworn we met last week… Remember that dude who OD’d on his mom’s bed? Oh, man, that was not a pretty scene. Felt really sorry for whoever had to clean that one up.”

  “I AM DR. MILLER,” I reiterate, because it’s apparently not getting through his thick skull. Then I realize he’s confusing me with Maggie Peterson, the only redheaded nurse in the department.

  She is a good five to ten years older than me, and she isn’t even a natural redhead! What the hell? Now I’m even more pissed off!

  “Okay, whatever.” He dismissively waves his hand at me.

  It’s a good thing I’m the consummate professional, because otherwise I would be giving him a piece of my mind. And, it’s a really good thing Anita comes out of the room before I have a chance to abandon my commitment to professionalism and go off on this asshat.

  “She’s all done,” Anita reports, looking at me first and then to Trooper Asshat.

  “I’m going to take her statement now, if it’s okay with you, Nurse Adams and Doctor Miller,” he says with—if not an actual one, then definitely an implied—eyeroll.