Page 4 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Settling on the red leather padding on the spanking bench, Dakota tried to relax and push everything out of her mind except what Shane was about to do. His hands trailed up her legs and then over her ass and lower back, rubbing and squeezing her flesh to bring the blood to the surface. “So, pet, what’s going on in that head of yours? You have a small tell when something’s bothering you and don’t want to talk about it—you nibble on your bottom lip.”
She’d never realized she did that, but now that it had been pointed out to her, she’d probably notice it from now on. Knowing the only way she could get out of answering the question, now that they were in D/s mode, was to say her safeword, she sighed. “I got passed over for Special Ops again, Sir.”
Since Shane was a fireman, she’d found it comfortable to talk about “on-the-job” stuff with him. Firemen, cops, paramedics, EMTs, and ER nurses understood what each other dealt with on a regular basis. Even though there was usually a healthy rivalry between the police and fire departments, there was also a strong camaraderie.
His right hand left her skin and a split second later made contact again with a hard slap on her right ass cheek, eliciting a gasp and moan from her as the sting made her wetter. “That sucks. Did they give you a reason why?”
“They never do, Sir.”
Smack. That one landed on the left side of her ass. “You’d be good at it.” Smack. “What about the detective bureau or taking the supervisor’s test?” Smack.
Goose bumps popped all over her body. This was what she’d needed . . . what she craved. A way to deal with the disappointment, the anger, and all the other negative emotions that came with her job. She couldn’t cry in front of her fellow officers unless it was because of the death of one of their own because it showed a weakness that could be used against her. The same went for her father—crying was for sissies, even coming from the female sex.
Gavin “Iron Guts” Swift had been a highly decorated police officer who’d made it to the rank of sergeant before a back injury had ended his career fourteen months before he got his twenty years in. At least it had been an on-the-job car accident, so all his medical expenses were paid for by workman’s compensation, and he received a disability pension which was roughly seventy-five percent of his active-duty salary.
Shane continued to pepper her ass and upper thighs with slaps that she felt deep in her core until she was ready to beg him to fuck her senseless, escaping the outside world for a little while. Tomorrow, she would think about her future. Tonight, there was no room for her thoughts—all she had to do was feel.
Chapter Three
Thirteen Months Later . . .
Sitting on the edge of a large planter filled with flowers, Ian Sawyer waited for his target to exit the building in front of him on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. Logan Reese had been ignoring his phone calls and emails for the better part of two months, but Ian wasn’t one to give up easily. However, if today’s face-to-face meeting was a failure, it would be time to move on and choose someone else.
Some people might call him and his brother Devon crazy for wanting to hire a former POW for the new spec-ops team for their business, Trident Security, but they could spot an intelligent and competent warrior a mile away. Considering they were both retired Navy SEALs, it was easy to recognize someone with the same training and mental capacity. Just prior to his capture in Afghanistan, Reese’s name had been thrown into the hat for consideration for the job by his uncle, a good friend and business associate of Ian’s. However, most would have tossed the man’s file in the garbage after what he’d gone through. But Ian was interested in seeing if the talent Reese had possessed before his ordeal still existed. If it did, and he was willing to agree to Ian’s terms, the job would be his on a trial basis.
Another five minutes passed, but Ian didn’t mind—it was a beautiful, sunny day, something he didn’t get to sit and enjoy often enough. Although, lately, he’d been taking more time off work just to enjoy days like this with his fiancée, Angie. The sixty-seven-degree weather in D.C. in February was a bit of an anomaly and would be disappearing again soon. Once more, he was glad they’d decided on Tampa for their home base. The average temperature down there now was between in the mid-seventies, and it would start climbing into the eighties in a few short weeks.
A light breeze brought the aroma of “dirty dogs” past his nose—his teammate, Marco DeAngelis, was from Staten Island and always referred to street vendors’ frankfurters that way because of the water they were sitting in on the carts. It was a New York City thing. Yet, despite the disgusting moniker, they were the best-tasting dogs around.
There was a stand half a block away, and the smell made him hungry, but he didn’t want to miss Reese walking out of the building. He knew the man was still inside, attending one of his bi-weekly sessions with a psychologist who specialized in veterans with PTSD. If his classified military file wasn’t fictitious—which it wasn’t—then Reese was worth the wait. Having a high military and federal security clearance, Ian had been able to read about many of the missions Reese and his teammates had been on, and the retired SEAL had been impressed with what he’d been privy to. It was the main reason Reese was still in the running for the new team. He was the only one of the six chosen who hadn’t signed on yet.
Putting together the new team was taking longer than Ian had hoped, but to get the best possible candidates, he had to wait for a few of them to cycle out of their final military tours or resign from their law enforcement commitments. There had also been other delays due to Trident’s own missions and obligations. So far, only two of the recruits had reported for their new jobs—the others would be joining them over the next six months.
Tristan McCabe was retired from the Army Special Forces, and Cain Foster had come to Tampa from the Secret Service. Both men excelled in their training, and their leadership abilities shined through. Devon and Ian were going to have a hard time choosing one of the two men to lead the Omega Team. That was the name Ben “Boomer” Michaelson had dubbed the new squad before deciding the original one was the Alpha Team. Since those six men were all dominants in the BDSM lifestyle, the names had stuck.
The glass door of the main entrance swung open, and a six-foot-one man, whose nickname in the Marines had been “Cowboy,” strode out, slamming his sunglasses over his brown eyes. But not before Ian had seen him assess every person within his sight. At thirty-two, a few years younger than Ian, he was still in excellent shape, moving like a panther, despite the weight he’d lost since Afghanistan. The way the tan cargo pants and red T-shirt he was wearing fit told Ian the man had at least maintained some sort of workout regimen—it was probably therapeutic for him. His dirty-blond hair was longer than required in the military, but spec-ops teams had a lot of leeway with it and their facial hair, needing to blend in for a mission.
Standing, Ian stepped into Reese’s path with a non-threatening expression on his face. “First Sergeant Logan Reese.”
The man stopped short. His hands clenched into fists as he glanced around to see if Ian had anyone else with him. There was no way he could miss the military demeanor and probably assumed there were others around—which there weren’t. His jaw ticked under the whiskers that were probably a few weeks old. “Who wants to know?”
“Lieutenant Ian Sawyer—retired Navy. You’re a hard man to get ahold of.”
Through his shades, Reese glared at him. “There’s a reason for that. Mainly, I didn’t need you to tell me in person that I was no longer on the list of candidates for your new team.”
Ian crossed his arms over his chest and stepped to the left when Reese tried to walk around him. “Who says you’re no longer on the list? I’m here to discuss your coming to Tampa to see how you mesh with the other team members.”
“Mesh? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll tell you how I’ll mesh. I’ll be there half a day before you’ll be telling me to pack my shit. Look, just because you’re friends with Larry doesn’t mean you have to go through the motions. Let’s just say we both agreed I’m not cut out for your company and leave it at that. You’re off the hook.”
Reese moved to the right, and Ian followed, again blocking his path and pissing him off further. “This has got nothing to do with Larry. If I didn’t think you were a good candidate, you could’ve been my own brother and I wouldn’t have offered you the tryout.” Larry Keon was Reese’s aunt’s ex-husband. He was also the number two man at the FBI. As Assistant Deputy Director, Keon was Trident Security’s main contact at the agency and the person who sent many of the private ops details their way, having dealt with SEAL Team Four on many occasions.
“Back off, Sawyer. I don’t need your fucking pity.” He was gritting his teeth, the veins in his neck bulging with his restraint, and Ian had to give him credit for not taking a swing at him.
“Good, because I don’t do pity. It’s a useless piss-poor emotion. No one wants to be on the receiving end of it, so it’s a waste of fucking energy.” He glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in their surroundings. What he was about to say would be a bit of a bomb. “Look, between you, me, and the squirrel over there playing with his nuts, I’ve read the reports on your mission—the unredacted reports.” Reese removed his sunglasses, his eyes flaring in shock, and Ian shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “It pays to have a high clearance, and before you say it, I didn’t get them from Larry. I saw them on a visit to the Pentagon.” Pain filled Reese’s eyes as the memories haunting him bubbled to the surface, probably not for the first time today. “You survived, Marine, when your teammates didn’t. Had the situation been reversed, and you were dead while one of them came home, would you want them sulking on your grave, or would you tell them to man the fuck up? There’s so much good you could be doing on my team. But if having your own pity party for the rest of your life is what you want to do, so be it.”
It was time to give Reese some space, and Ian stepped backward. “Think about it. I’ll be at the Blarney Stone until fourteen-hundred hours, having lunch. It’s a pub, two blocks that way.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “If you’re not there by fourteen-oh-one, I’ll throw your file in a dumpster and be done with you.”
Without waiting for an answer, Ian turned on his heel and walked away, hoping the kid made the right decision for his own sake.
