Page 20 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Mitch laughed. “And that’s just the start. Wait until tomorrow—you’ll be getting to the good stuff. Logan Reese, Kip Morrison, this is Stefan Lundquist. He’s with the Coast Guard and is teaching the Shibari class tonight.”
Before today, Logan had never heard of Shibari, which was the art of rope bondage commonly used in BDSM settings. As the three men exchanged greetings and handshakes, Tiny let out a low whistle. “Damn . . . who’s the silver vixen?”
The two Omega teammates turned to see the gray-haired FBI agent they’d met earlier. Instead of using the stairwell behind the bar, she and another female federal agent had come up the grand staircase. She was one of those women who’d gone gray very early in life and still rocked it now in her early forties. Her hair was cut short and spiked. Add that to her shapely five-foot-ten-inch frame, she definitely drew appreciative looks from both genders.
Logan kept his voice low, so no one else could overhear, although someone had turned on the club’s sound system and soothing jazz filtered out of the speakers, but not too loudly to drown out conversation. “That’s Nikita Novik. A . . . friend . . . of Colt Parrish.” The six-foot-eight mountain of a man’s lower jaw was almost at his knees as he watched the tall drink of water sashay toward the heavy, wooden doors leading to the lobby, and Logan snickered. “Skipper, I think Tiny needs the towel more than I do, man.”
The phone behind the bar rang, and the bartender picked it up. Seconds later, he called out, “Hey, Mitch. Ty’s on the phone, wondering where you are.”
“Tell him I’m on my way home, Dennis. Thanks.” Turning back to the others, the club owner/manager added, “Today’s Tori’s birthday, so we’re taking her out for dinner. See you guys later.”
Now that was a relationship Logan didn’t understand—two men and one woman and they were all in love with each other. He wasn’t against it, but none of his past relationships with one woman had worked out, so he had no clue how they made it work with an added person in the mix. To each his own.
The door to the stairwell leading to the locker rooms swung open and out stepped Dakota and Skipper’s new partner, Sheila Cummings. Logan eyed Dakota as the two women strode toward them. In a snug, Grunt Style, patriotic skull T-shirt and the jeans she’d been wearing that morning, she was just as sexy as when she’d been in her club wear. A twitch in his pants had him running baseball stats in his head to keep from getting hard—damn, if he was alone with her tonight, he’d probably do something stupid like hit on her.
Clearing his throat, he addressed his teammate and Sheila. “Dakota and I are going to Donovan’s for some dinner and a beer and to discuss what we . . . um . . . well, get to know each other better. Care to join us?”
He thanked his lucky stars when the two glanced at each other, shrugged, and agreed to come along. Dakota seemed as relieved as he was that they’d have company.
Twenty minutes later, the foursome was settled into a booth at the back of the Irish pub owned by Jake Donovan’s brother, Mike, who was currently training a new bartender. He’d given Logan and Kip a quick wave when they’d entered, telling them to take whatever table they wanted. While the place drew a hefty lunch crowd and was packed in the evenings from Wednesday through Sunday, Monday nights was sort of slow, like most restaurants. There was no one sitting near them, so they’d be able to discuss both the lifestyle and the case without being overheard.
After their food orders were taken, and a pitcher of beer had been emptied into four glasses, the idle chit-chat between them moved onto things they hadn’t been able to discuss at the club. Sheila filled Logan in on her background—she was a lifestyle switch and had been with the Tampa PD for six years, the last two in the Special Ops Division. She glanced at the woman sitting across from her. “I’m glad to have another chick added to the squad. We need someone else who can pull off spandex tights and dress like a prostitute for the perverted ‘john’ stings.”
Dakota laughed and shook her head. “I’m not on the squad yet. I’m still considered to be on loan from patrol. But from your mouth to the captain’s ear . . .” She lifted her glass in a toast before taking a sip.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, girl. From what I’ve heard, you’re the only one Captain Bowman has already approved to take one of the two opening positions. He’s just waiting for the higher ups to sign off on transfers into the unit—damn politicians and the budget are holding things up. And if it wasn’t for that asshole, Fallon, cock blocking you all the time, you would’ve been on before I was. I know it’s no consolation but be grateful you didn’t have to work under him. We celebrated, without him, when he retired.”
Logan had no idea who the women were talking about, other than the fact they were obviously the former and current supervisors of the Special Ops Division. He wondered what Sheila had meant about Fallon “cock blocking” Dakota’s transfer but didn’t want to come out and ask. “So, tell us what we’re looking for with this bastard. Since, from what we’re told, KK is a Dom, what are we looking for?”
“KK?” Dakota snickered with an amused expression. “Okay, I guess that’s better than saying that stupid moniker outright. Damn press.” She got serious again. “Yes, the FBI behavioral analyst thinks he’s a practicing Dom, which makes our jobs that much more difficult. If you’ve been in the lifestyle for a good amount of time, it’s easy to spot the newbies or wannabes, unless a person is skilled in undercover work. Most people find it hard not to stare in a “holy shit” way when seeing certain things in a club for the first time. Also, eye contact or lack thereof is always an easy tell. Like DeAngelis said earlier, Dom’s will never look away when they are speaking to subs unless there’s a reason. Subs should keep their eyes downcast until the Dom orders them to look up, and then their eyes should be directed at the Dom. Looking away, while conversing one-on-one, is frowned upon, and that’s usually an easy way to spot a new sub. When they’re nervous, they’ll look at everything and everyone but the Dom. This bastard has probably been able to pick out quite a few of the UC teams. He’s probably known to the less exclusive clubs and maybe one or two of the more private ones. What the task force hasn’t been able to figure out is where the hell he’s keeping them while he’s torturing them. According to the ME, he’s letting them scream to the point they’re popping blood vessels in their throats.”
“Shit.”
Logan agreed with Morrison. As former military, in this day and age, they’d both been exposed to the horrors of war and torture, Logan especially, but knowing what those poor women went through was a kick to the gut.
The two police officers filled their new partners in on the rest of the details from the case they hadn’t had time to review, and it wasn’t long before their dinners were served, and the conversation turned again at the waitress’s presence. “So, Logan,” Sheila said, “Kip told me he’s a retired Army Ranger and LAPD sniper. Before TPD, I did two tours in the sandbox with the Army too. Where were you before Trident? You’ve got that military walk and talk.”
He wasn’t about to tell them where he was right before Trident, which was in a depressive pit, but he could tell them enough to satisfy their curiosity. Dakota was staring at him intently, clearly interested in whatever he was about to say. “Only branch that matters,” he boasted. “The Marine Corps.”
The two Army grunts scoffed at him, and Morrison shook his head. “Yeah, Cowboy was a high-priced bellhop.”
Clearly confused, Dakota repeated, “High-priced bellhop? What does that mean?”
Sheila snickered. “I’m sure you’ve seen the Marines dress uniforms—they look like bellhops in them.”
“Oh, jeez. I never thought about it that way, but I think you’re right.” The corners of her mouth ticked upward. “So, Cowboy, got any pictures of you looking like a bellhop?”
Even though he liked how she felt comfortable enough to tease him, he wasn’t letting her get away with it. He was starting to understand why Ian, Marco, and the others always said they liked when their wives and girlfriends were bratty, because it gave them a reason to spank their asses. Right now, Logan’s hand itched to pull Dakota across his lap and spank her before fucking her silly until she screamed his name in ecstasy. Of course, that was out of the question in the middle of Donovan’s, and she’d probably either rip his balls off or shoot him if he tried. “Watch it, subbie,” he said with a smirk, satisfied when her eyebrows shot up. “Or I’ll tell Marco you volunteered for the spanking demonstration tomorrow. Of course, as your partner, it would be me lighting up your ass.”
While she glared at him, Skipper and Sheila roared with laughter. Logan arched his brow at Dakota, daring her to challenge him. The tightening of her jaw told him he was going to pay for his words at some point in the next few days, and damn it, he was actually looking forward to it. She turned him on in a way no other woman had in years—if ever—and he began thinking of all the ways he could try to wind up in her bed after the case was over. Or maybe before then.
The stench of blood filled his nostrils, flaring his need to inflict more pain, but alas, his latest piece of art was no longer breathing. A disappointment. Lily Stokes hadn’t lasted long at all, and the Dom didn’t think she deserved to be listed among his masterpieces. She was only partially completed. Without her screams of pain, his desire to finish what he’d started began to wane.
Taking a step back, he eyed her naked body, still being held to the St. Andrew’s cross by the wrist and ankle restraints. He hadn’t even had a chance to turn her around and decorate the front of her. Only her back, ass, arms, and legs were deep red with his mark—slashes from each strike of his bullwhip. Blood ran down her skin to the floor beneath her, while more was sprayed on the walls, ceilings, and the Dom himself. Dressed as he usually was when he was working on a new masterpiece, he wore only his leather pants and boots. His sculpted arms had bulged each time he sent the whip sailing through the air, and sweat coated his skin, mixing with the submissive’s lifeblood.
He thought he’d chosen well, but for some reason, her heart had given out too soon. Should he continue and see if he could salvage what was left of her?
Running the leather strands of the whip through his loose fist, he contemplated her skin. There was still some room on the backs of her lower legs. Raising his arm, he reached back and then let the whip fly forward. A flick of his wrist at the last moment produced a satisfying crack, but that was the only sound he heard.
