Page 12 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Hmm. Which lucky submissive would become Masterpiece #10?
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Standing in line to order his caffeine fix, a petite brunette in front of Logan caught his attention when she glanced over her shoulder at him with assessing brown eyes as if sensing someone larger loomed behind her. She studied him for a moment before facing forward again. He hadn’t intended to get in her personal space, but it was crowded in the small shop, and if he moved back, he’d step on one of the two little kids standing behind him with their mother.
In her late twenties, he guessed, the brunette was about six inches shorter than him, with a curvy but toned frame and brown hair that stopped just below her shoulders. A snug, pale blue T-shirt stretched across her back, and his gaze shifted lower to her scrumptious, denim-covered backside. The jeans were faded in all the right places and fit her like a glove. When she approached the counter, he loved how the globes of her ass swayed with the movement and wished he had the right to run his hands over them.
Damn! He shifted his own hips and forced himself to look away. At least he didn’t have to worry anymore about the temporary impotence, which the doctors had said resulted from his PTSD. That had lasted about six months, and he’d almost taken out a billboard ad to celebrate his first hard-on after returning to the States. Unfortunately, he hadn’t used it or any of the ones that’d followed—at least not with a woman. He was afraid of things not working right if he got involved with someone, even though he had no trouble jacking off. He was also terrified of what might happen after having sex with a woman. His sleep usually resulted in a lot of swinging of fists and kicking of feet when the nightmares plagued him. There had actually been a few times he’d fallen off the bed onto the floor fighting an invisible enemy.
“Excuse me, sir? You’re next.”
Shaking his head to clear it, Logan stepped toward the counter, where the barista was waiting for him, and realized, with a hint of disappointment, the woman he’d been fantasizing about was already on her way out the door. Oh, well. It didn’t matter since he wasn’t the horn-dog he’d been years before, and hitting on her was out of the question. At least it was for now . . . he had more important things on his mind than getting laid. There was a mandatory meeting at the office this morning, and the main topic was going to be the teams’ assignments, including the Kink Killer case. Maybe when things calmed down a little, he’d consider hooking up with a woman. Not anything long-term, just the occasional roll in the sack with no strings attached.
Logan placed and paid for his order of a plain black coffee and then stepped to the other end of the counter to wait for it. When a pretty blonde handed the brew to him with a huge, inviting smile, he thanked her and then headed for the door. Compared to the woman who’d caught his eye a few minutes earlier, the coed behind the counter was barely out of her teens, which was far too young for him.
Checking his watch as he exited the shop, he noted he had fifteen minutes to make the five-minute drive to the TS compound.
When he stepped outside, the morning sun had risen further, and he lifted his face, enjoying the heat momentarily. It’d been two days since his team had returned from their final training mission in the Rockies, and Logan finally felt warm again. After the freezing temperatures they’d endured, in addition to everything else they’d gone through, he didn’t want to see another snowflake for at least a year.
Striding to his car, he slowed when he saw three punks in their early twenties surrounding the woman from the coffee line, and she didn’t look happy about it. They had the typical thug-life look to them: baggy clothes, with the waistband of their jeans hanging three-quarters of the way down their asses, white wife-beaters on their thin torsos, and $150 Jordan sneakers on their feet.
Logan placed his coffee on the hood of his truck and stepped closer to the group.
“Come on, sweet thing,” one of them tried to cajole her. “Me and the boys’ll show you a good time. A few lines, and you’ll be begging for it, baby.”
Yeah, that was fucking original, asshole. Unimaginative flattery like that will get you nowhere.
Before the woman could answer, Logan growled and moved in front of her, pushing the thugs back with just his mere size. After all his workouts, his muscles were back to where they’d been before his capture, and his shoulders were broader than the three dickheads’ put together. He also stood at least three inches above the tallest. “It doesn’t look like the lady is interested in you, your lines, or your good time, so take a hike.”
At least one of them was too stupid to take Logan’s advice and pulled out a switchblade. When the retired Marine heard the snick, he went on the offensive. His hand snapped out, snatched the idiot’s wrist, and twisted until the open blade fell harmlessly to the pavement, and a scream of pain filled the air. One of the other punks abandoned his buddies and took off running, but the third asshole lunged forward to help his friend, who was now kneeling on the asphalt, begging to be released. Keeping a firm grip on the wrist he was inches away from breaking, Logan sidestepped the second attack and kicked the guy in the knee, dropping him to the ground next to his buddy. Another howl of agony joined the first.
With an eye on the now-disabled assailants, Logan glanced at the woman to ensure she was okay. What he hadn’t expected to see was her arms crossed over her chest, her right hip cocked to the side and the pissed-off glare on her face that wasn’t directed at either of the men who’d been harassing her. Instead, her anger was aimed at him. What the fuck?
“If you’re okay, can you call the cops?” Logan asked, unsure what her problem was.
Lifting the hem of her shirt about two inches, she flashed a silver shield clipped to her belt. “I am a cop, and I didn’t need your help, thank you.” The last two words were said in a sarcastic tone, which he could have let slide, but then she had to add, “Now, unless you want to end up in a cell next to them, I suggest you leave.”
Logan couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d hit him with a two-by-four.
Well, fuck this shit.
Letting go of dirtbag number one, he stepped back and brushed his hands together. “Sorry I came to your defense like my parents taught me to. Next time, I’ll ask if a woman is a cop or if she needs help first before I jump in with my Superman routine. Have a nice day.” Yeah, his sarcastic tone matched hers, but he didn’t care.
Striding back to his truck without a backward glance, Logan grabbed his coffee off the hood, climbed in, and started the engine. Once he put it in drive, he finally looked over at the woman, who had told the punks to get lost as Logan had walked away. She glared at him as he pulled out of the parking space before giving her a snappy salute on his way to the exit.
Dakota stared at the back of the blue pickup truck as it drove past her. Why did every freaking alpha male think every woman needed to be saved? She’d been about to put those punks in their place when the good-looking Lone Ranger had ridden in to save all of humanity. Well, at least this little corner of it. Then he’d fucking saluted her.
Maybe if you’d been a little less sarcastic, he wouldn’t have been so insulted. Shit. Oh well, too late to fix it now.
In a way, she felt bad about how she’d gone off on him, but her morning had already sucked and was possibly going to go downhill from there. The federal agent she’d been partnered with for the past few months had been a nice enough guy, but he sucked at being a Dom. Cameron Davis couldn't cut it, and it was obvious to the members of the club they'd been assigned to that the man didn't belong in the lifestyle. She'd been torn between keeping her mouth shut and not rocking the boat and reporting it to SAC Parrish. The two hadn’t played in public and had used the private playrooms for appearances only. The only things that had occurred behind closed doors had been a comparison of notes, conversations about the weather, and reading books they’d both stuck in Davis’s alleged toy bag. Before returning to the crowd, they messed up their hair and clothes, then did some pushups to get sweaty and give a freshly-fucked flush to their faces.
Each night, after leaving the club, Davis had driven her “home” to the condo she was sharing with another female FBI agent, Gina Harvey. Again, it was for appearances. Parrish hadn’t wanted any of the UCs to return to their private residences in case the Kink Killer had targeted them. But so far, neither woman had been approached by anyone after being dropped off in the parking lot.
Yesterday, Davis had finally admitted to himself and her that his inability to blend in with those in the lifestyle was a deterrent to their investigation. He’d gone to Parrish and suggested he be reassigned to a perimeter post. The dominant SAC had agreed and arranged for Dakota to partner with an agent from Trident Security. Ian Sawyer had told her to meet him at the company compound at 0900 to be introduced to Logan Reese, and she hoped he was a better UC than Davis. Two more victims had been tortured, killed, and dumped in the Tampa area since Dakota had joined the task force. It grated on all involved in the case that they still had no leads on who the sadistic bastard was.
Climbing in her SUV, she had an hour to kill before her meeting, so she drove to Oaklawn Cemetery, where her mother was buried. Tina Marie Swift had been an OR nurse at Tampa General Hospital, but her life had been cut short by a heart attack at the young age of forty-one when Dakota had been a freshman in high school. Tina’s family and friends had been devastated by the loss of the vibrant woman who always had a smile on her face.
