Party of Three: A H.O.T. Cops Novel

by Lacey Alexander

  Rogan Wolfe sat at the bar nursing a beer. The pretty girl behind the bar—who couldn’t have been a day more than twenty-two—was making conversation, but she was too young for him. He’d never used to pay attention to things like that, but he guessed he’d gone through some changes lately. Maybe he was finally growing up. Or maybe it was about Mira.

  Mira was an old girlfriend whose heart he’d once broken—and she’d returned the favor last summer. It hadn’t been her fault, and though he’d never really talked to anyone about it, the truth was that he’d spent quite a bit of time after that pining for her. Another first—Rogan Wolfe, pining for a woman. He’d pined, in fact, until he’d realized he needed to make a change, a big one. He’d needed to get out of Charlevoix, Michigan, the same small lakeside town where they’d both lived—and he’d needed something exciting to take his mind off her. So he’d come down to Miami to visit his friend Colt and he’d applied for a job on the Miami Police Department while he was here. A month later, he’d turned in his Charlevoix badge and started working South Beach.

  And the change had been exactly what he’d needed. Miami was hot sun, hot music, hot girls, and action, action, action. But maybe what falling for Mira had done was to help him see that, when it came to women, the time had finally arrived in his life when he needed more than just a pretty face and smokin’ body. He needed a little substance. And that fact surprised him more than anybody else, but there it was—the next time he got involved with someone, he wanted it to count for something, be someone he could envision a future with.

  Though the truth was … women, dating, fucking—they hadn’t been high on his priority list since he’d come to Miami. Sure, he’d found someone to hook up with a few times—God knew his sex drive hadn’t faded after Mira—but mostly, he’d thrown himself into his job. Which was why he was here tonight, working undercover. Undercover and not officially on the clock.

  Remembering why he was here, he pushed the beer aside, not wanting to let alcohol dull his senses. He might not always play by the rules—and his partner would be pissed if he knew Rogan was here right now—but that didn’t equal being sloppy. In fact, since hitting South Beach, Rogan had felt more inspired by his work than ever before. After spending the first dozen years of his career in small town Michigan, he’d found his calling in Miami. In Miami, things were happening, crimes were being committed—and there were true bad guys who needed to be taken down. A place like Miami, Rogan now knew, was the reason he’d become a cop in the first place.

  A few minutes ago, the Café Tropico had been mostly empty and he’d been keeping a low profile at the bar, but now that it was filling up more and the band was getting ready to play, he felt safe to casually shift on his bar stool and take a look around the open-air room. He was hoping Junior Martinez and his sidekick, Juan Gonzalez, would show up tonight. The bar’s owner, Dennis Isaacs, who Rogan had gotten friendly with since working this area, suspected the two of selling drugs out of a back room. Dennis had let them know they weren’t welcome here, more than once, but he was an older man and the two thugs were comfortable throwing their weight around. The Café Tropico wasn’t fancy and had certainly seen better days, but it was a decent place—besides possessing tidbits of old Miami charm if you looked hard enough, it was also one of few places on Ocean Avenue where you could walk in and get a burger without busting your wallet. And Rogan wanted it to stay a decent place.

  The truth was, coming to Miami had lit a fresh fire under him, sharpened the edges on what had almost become a dull occupation. And so now he found himself going unofficially undercover, taking a special interest in this situation off the clock, in hopes of bringing down a couple of dealers, even if they were low-level. Best-case scenario—he could end up getting promoted to detective. Worst—well, even if he wasn’t completely playing by the rules, if he was successful in taking some drugs and a couple of losers off the streets and helped out a local business owner at the same time, he just didn’t think his captain would come down on him too hard.

  The room was filled with the same people he would expect—a few tourists in shorts ate burritos or cheeseburgers while they waited for the classic rock cover band to start. Some club hoppers—younger and more slickly dressed—had stopped in for an early drink before moving on to the trendier establishments up the block. A middle-aged couple Rogan thought he’d seen here before did some salsa dancing to the Latin music that had begun to play over the loudspeakers a few minutes ago, warming people up for the band. So what if the Latin tunes would clash with the band’s songs? It was that kinda place—more about easy grub and alcohol than worrying about sticking to a theme.

  The only unpleasant sight was the guys at the pool table in the corner. Some Latino, some white, they sported too many bald heads, muscle shirts, and tattoos for Rogan’s liking as a cop—they just looked like trouble. And he knew he’d seen at least a couple of them hanging with Martinez and Gonzalez on previous visits.

  That’s when his eyes fell on the lady in the navy blue suit. Damn, talk about out of place—what on earth was some starched professional chick doing here, dressed like that, on a Friday night? It wasn’t like it was against the law or anything, of course, but … well, she just looked sort of ridiculous. Not to mention far too stiff, even as she lifted a sandwich to her heart-shaped lips.

  It was then that it hit him—she was pretty. Almost hard to notice the way she was dressed, and with her coppery hair all pulled back tight in a bun like a librarian would wear. But she had damn attractive lips, that was for sure—and as his eyes traveled downward, he caught sight of a nice pair of legs ending in a pair of pumps that would have been more sexy than professional if they weren’t the exact same shade of navy as her tailored suit. You should let your hair down, honey. She just looked … buttoned up too tight. Didn’t she know this was the tropics?

  And that’s when the shouting started.