Page 3 of A Dead Man’s Pulse (Trident Security Omega Team #1)

Chapter Two

Seven years. Seven fucking years. Seven .

. . fucking . . . long . . . years. She slapped her hand on the heavy, wooden door leading out to the hallway and sent it banging against the concrete wall.

A few officers, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, were in the corridor, coming and going from the shift change, and most startled at the sound, then sent her a range of looks from annoyed to sympathetic.

So, word was already getting around. She ignored them all, striding down the hall to the exit for the parking lot behind the station where her vehicle was parked.

“Hey, Dakota! Wait up!”

The shout came from behind her at the other end of the hall, and she almost didn’t slow down, but Officer Ricardo Hernandez was one of her best friends—and had been since they’d gone through the academy together.

When she reached the double doors, she paused long enough for him to catch up.

He was four inches taller than her own five foot five and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, yet she could still take him down on the sparring mat.

In fact, she could take down most of her fellow male officers, something she knew grated on many of them.

Sighing, Dakota tried to sound like she was just tired and everything was fine when it wasn’t. “What?”

“Outside.” Gesturing for her to lead the way to the parking lot, he followed her out to her SUV. After making sure no one was within earshot, he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his blond-haired head. “I’m sorry. I heard they shit-canned your transfer request again, the fucking pricks.”

Swallowing hard, she willed herself not to cry.

In front of Ric was one thing, but if anyone else saw her, they’d use it as proof she couldn’t handle the promotion to the Special Ops Division.

She’d been trying to get into undercover work for four years now, and every time a position opened, she got passed over.

Several times, it had been for someone with less time on the job than her.

She didn’t know what problem the higher-ups had with her—she was a damn good cop, with several commendations and no black marks in her file.

Her immediate supervisors had written glowing letters of recommendation too.

Yet, once again, they’d given the position to someone else.

She couldn’t even claim it was sexual discrimination since another female officer had gotten the go-ahead the last time a spot was open.

To top everything off, as soon as her father heard about it, he’d be siding with the brass, as he had been for years.

You’d think her old man would be thrilled his daughter followed in his footsteps onto Tampa PD, but he wasn’t.

He’d wanted her brother to be the one to fill his big shoes, but Gerry Swift had gone into engineering instead.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past my father to have been the one to blackball me. God forbid his daughter advances to a position he’d never held while he was working here.”

Ric rolled his eyes. “No one is blackballing you. If they were, you’d have the worst shift in the worst corner of the city for the rest of your career instead of working next to yours truly.

“C’mon. Let’s head over to Chasers for a beer.

” When she opened her mouth to turn him down, he held up a hand to stop her.

“C’mon, one beer won’t kill you. Besides, I need you as my wingman.

Some chick from a fender-bender report I took earlier might be stopping by, and you need to tell her about all my wonderful attributes, so I can get laid. ”

This time, it was Dakota rolling her eyes. “You’re such a man-whore.”

“Yup. And it wouldn’t hurt you any to pick out some stud for a roll in the hay every once in a while. I mean, seriously, when was the last time you got laid?”

Obviously far too long ago since she honestly couldn’t remember off the top of her head, so she bypassed the question. “One beer. The minute you’ve got the green light and two tickets to paradise, I’m out of there.”

Less than five minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the tavern that was a known cop hangout.

Turning off the ignition, Dakota made sure she had her keys, phone, wallet, and money.

Before exiting the vehicle, she removed her concealed, holstered firearm from the back waistband of her jeans and locked it in the glove compartment. Guns and alcohol didn’t mix.

Ric was waiting for her at the establishment’s entrance, and as she approached, he pulled on the handle, holding the door open for her.

The man had manners, charm, and looks, and not for the first time, she regretted there was nothing between them.

But hooking up with Ric would be like hooking up with her brother.

Loud music and conversation filled the bar, along with cops, badge groupies, and plain ol’ civilians out for a good time.

It was a popular place—the food was good, prices were reasonable, and the bartenders gave the occasional buy-backs—a free beer or drink after every third or fourth one.

The bar’s owner was a retired TPD sergeant who made sure his patrons were well taken care of.

After running a hand through his short hair, Ric waved at a few people and pushed his way through the crowd with Dakota on his heels.

She tended to be overlooked in situations like this when most of the people around her stood over six feet tall, and more than once, she’d been stepped on in crowds, so she usually let her friend lead the way.

Toward the back, the mass of bodies opened up a bit as Ric found a group of cops who’d just gotten off shift with them.

Dakota greeted them as well and then waited for one of them to flag down the bartender for drinks for the newcomers.

Taking her usual beer, she thanked him before glancing around the bar.

There was the usual college clique, badge bunnies looking to hook up with a cop, one girls’ night out for a bachelorette, and plenty of others.

Her gaze passed over a table full of men and then shot back with interest to a handsome, dark-haired hunk in a dress shirt and slacks.

His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing his muscular arms, the top button of his shirt was undone, and his tie was loose around his neck.

Well, well, well. At least something is going my way today. Only took twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes for it to happen.

Shane Littleton was a Dom she knew from Pandora’s Box and, at twenty-seven, was two years younger than her. They’d played together a few times, enjoying the fact neither wanted a relationship outside the club.

But what’s he doing here when he lives an hour away?

When a set of teal green eyes met her brown ones, her gaze immediately and involuntarily dropped to the floor, in silent respect for his title, before rising again.

He winked at her and then, using the hand resting on his thigh under the table, gave her a crook of his finger, inviting her over.

Giving him a subtle shake of her head, she pulled out her cell phone and located his name in her contacts.

The only reason she had the Kissimmee fireman’s number was because they’d made plans in advance to play one night a few weeks ago, and she’d needed a way to let him know if she got held up at work.

Using her forearm to hold her beer bottle against her side, Dakota typed out a quick text to Shane.

Sorry, Sir. Not here. With my coworkers. Just got off shift.

She turned away to acknowledge a question one of her fellow cops asked her as the Dom grabbed his cell from the tabletop in front of him when it lit up and read the text. Moments later, her phone vibrated in her hand.

Shane L.

No worries. Does “not here” mean we can meet somewhere else, or will my favorite sub have to disappoint me tonight?

The corners of Dakota’s mouth ticked upward as she typed in a response. She had no illusions he didn’t have a small harem of favorite subs. Nor was he unaware she enjoyed several Doms at the club.

If you can wait a bit. It would look funny if I left five minutes after walking in.

Seconds passed.

Shane L.

I’d wait for you all night, my little subbie. BTW you look hot. Makes me wonder what you’re wearing under those tight jeans. Hopefully nothing.

One beer and forty minutes of relatively boring conversations later, Dakota said good night to Ric and the other cops and caught Master Shane’s gaze across the still crowded bar.

She knew she didn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d had too much to drink to scene with her or drive because alcohol was something he avoided, preferring tonic and lime.

He’d told her one night while administering her aftercare following a scene that alcoholism ran in his family, and he never wanted to fall into the same trap, having seen what it did to his parents and grandfather.

When he stood and evidently told his buddies he was leaving, she headed for the door.

After a quick negotiation in the parking lot, they got into their respective vehicles, and she followed him to a BDSM club about twenty minutes east of Tampa and forty minutes west of the Kissimmee suburb he lived in.

She’d heard of the Pleasure Dome but had never been to it.

Shane had told her that even though it was open to the public, it was one of the better non-exclusive clubs in the area.

He was friends with the owner and, on the drive there, would be able to arrange a private playroom for them.

While she trusted the Dom in more ways than one, having him back at her place was a hard limit for Dakota.

She insisted on keeping her sexual lifestyle and her personal and professional lives as far apart as possible.

Mixing them could be disastrous, and it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.