Rookie Mistake: California Dreamers, #4

By Karen M. Bryson and Dakota Madison

When a police recruit reports for duty he discovers his wild one-night stand from the previous weekend is his new field training officer.

After serving seven years as a police officer in a small beach community is Southern California, Maya Navarro feels like she’s finally been accepted by her peers. Now as a newly appointed Field Training Officer she can finally make her mark.

Returning to California after serving two tours of duty in Iraq, Cody Jackson makes the decision to become a police officer. He graduated from the Academy with flying colors and just has to make it through his field training to become a full-fledged member of the force.

Maya and Cody are both nursing broken hearts when their best friends push them into a one-night stand with each other. Even though their wild night together is the hottest sex either one of them has ever had they part ways believing they will never see each other again.

Until Cody reports for his first day of field training and discovers that Maya is his supervisor. Maya would rather die than admit to her sergeant the reason she can’t oversee Cody’s training. So she’s stuck with him for ten weeks of very close and personal contact on a daily basis. As things heat up between them they need to remain strictly professional, or risk ruining their careers.

WARNING: This book contains foul language, sexual innuendo and a little bit of hanky-panky. Buyer beware.

CALIFORNIA DREAMERS is a series of interconnecting romantic comedy stories that can be read as STAND ALONE NOVELLAS or as part of the SERIES.

The CALIFORNIA DREAMERS SERIES:

(Not So) Good in a Room (Nellie’s Story)
So Far Away (Maddie’s Story)
Beautiful Abyss (Chris’s Story)
Rookie Mistake (Cody & Maya’s Story)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Short on Time Books
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386663850

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to retired Detective Larry Kincaid and Sergeant Brian Taylor for providing me with information about police life and procedure. Your help was invaluable.

One

There’s a knock on the door of my apartment. I don’t want to see anyone in my current state so I ignore it. Maybe if I’m lucky whoever it is will go away.

Apparently I’m not that lucky.

There’s more knocking.

I’ve lived in my tiny studio apartment for the last five years. I realize it’s not much, but it’s what I can afford on a public servant’s salary in very expensive Southern California. I prefer to think of my closet-sized dwelling as cozy. I work crazy hours so it’s not like I’m home that much anyway. I basically just need a place to crash and shower.

I’ve been crying for the last five hours and twenty-eight minutes. I’ve gone through six boxes of heavy two-ply tissues that are now scattered all over my living room floor.

The person at the door isn’t going to give up without a fight. He or she has decided to start pounding.

Who...is...it? I manage to chirp between heavy sobs.

It’s your sister from another mister, a female voice replies.

I don’t have to open the door to know it’s my best friend, Zoe. Her heavy Brooklyn accent definitely stands out on the West coast.

I grab a tissue and blow my nose. Then I toss it on the floor to join the rest of its former box mates, used then so recklessly discarded. 

At that moment I realize those tissues are a metaphor for how I’m feeling...cast aside like unwanted trash.

I somehow manage to pick myself up from my daybed and stagger towards the door. I feel as lifeless as a zombie and I don’t think I look much better. 

I know I shouldn’t glance at myself in the mirror. Seeing the horror show I’ve become will only make me feel worse. I’ve had a complete and total emotional breakdown.

It’s hard not to sneak a peek at myself when the mirror is hanging right next to the front door.

Ugh. I look a lot worse than I imagined. My long dark hair is askew. It looks like I’ve just walked through a wind tunnel. And my normally large dark eyes are red and swollen from crying.

If you run away screaming I won’t be offended, I warn Zoe as I open the door.

She looks me up and down. I’m not going to lie. You’re a wreck.

She pushes past me into my apartment. Unlike the disaster otherwise known as my hair, Zoe’s hair always looks perfect.

What’s going on? she asks. You’re normally so uptight and guarded. It takes a lot for you to even crack a smile. You’ve obviously been crying. That’s not like you, tough girl.

I’m having an emotional crisis.

Clearly. She plops down on my daybed. Let me guess. Guy trouble.

I sniffle. "Noah broke up with me. He told me he was tired of having his balls in my purse. I don’t even own a purse."

She dismisses my concerns with a wave of her hand. What does he know about balls? If anything he needs to grow a pair. You’re better off without him.

I thought he was the one. I start sobbing again.

Zoe grabs a tissue from the nearly empty box and hands it to me. If I don’t implement some tissue conservation measures immediately I’ll soon be wiping my nose on a dishtowel.

In the grand scheme of things you were with Noah for like a minute. Another minute and you’ll get over him. A minute after that and you’ll be with someone else.

We were together almost three months. I thought he loved me.

He just wanted a garage to park that long black limousine of his in every night.

He’s already found another garage to park in, I snivel. I guess she stays open all night. He never has to wait for his space.

I hope her garage door closes on him and whacks his limo in half. What a dick.

I’ve become a serial dumpee.

What does that mean?

Guys seem to be excited to go out with me at first, but after a month or two they split. I don’t think they can handle my job.

Why do you say that?

Because that’s exactly what they tell me. They can’t handle dating a police officer.

Zoe hops up from my daybed and puts her hands on my shoulders. She’s one of the few people I’ve ever met who is actually shorter than I am.

My dad was of Mexican descent and my mom’s family is Italian. I didn’t score any height in the genetic lottery. I’m only five foot three inches tall.

Zoe is even shorter. She wasn’t completely kidding when she called me her sister from another mister. She’s half Puerto Rican and half Italian. We look a lot alike. People are always mistaking us for sisters. 

You know what they say. The best way to get over a guy is to get under another one.

And what would you know about getting under a guy?

Just because I prefer traveling the Golden Valley doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the occasional ride on the bone rollercoaster.

All the years I’ve known Zoe she’s dated women. The only exception was our senior prom. She went with Hans Wagner, an exchange student from Germany. Was he her lone bone rollercoaster ride?

In case you haven’t noticed men aren’t exactly lining up to go out with me, I remind her.

And you don’t exactly make yourself open to men either. It takes a lot for a guy to get past the emotional armor you wear.

I don’t have the opportunity to meet men. I don’t have time to go to the gym. I don’t like the bar scene. Where am I supposed to meet someone?

You work with hundreds of guys...

I put a hand in the air to stop her. You know I don’t date cops.

You are a cop.

"Which is exactly why I don’t date them. I don’t mix work and pleasure. Ever. I’ve worked too hard to develop a solid reputation with my fellow officers. After seven years they are finally starting to respect me and treat me like a peer. I don’t want to do anything to screw that up."

Let’s take a drive out of town then, she suggests. We can go to some country bar in the sticks and you can have your pipes cleaned by some hunky cowboy. A night of red hot anonymous sex and you won’t even remember the name Noah.

You know I’m not that kind of a girl. I’ve never had a casual fling in my life.

Maybe that’s the problem. You’re taking sex way too seriously. You have to start thinking like a guy in the bedroom. One and done. Then you’re on to the next one. Just because you taste the sausage doesn’t mean you have to buy the cow.

You’ve got your metaphor a little mixed up. Sausage is usually from a pig, not a cow, but I get your point.

That’s what you get when a vegan tries to make a meat reference.

I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I think I just want to stay home and wallow in self-pity.

There’s a problem with that plan. You’re almost out of tissues.

Good point.

So that settles it. We’re going to find a cowboy bar somewhere and you’re going to get yourself a one-eyed corn husker for the night.

***

The bar we finally settle on is pretty far inland. It took us forty-nine minutes to get here, but it felt more like forty-nine hours.

The sign outside the rundown place guarantees the Best Country Music in the US of A. Considering I know nothing of the genre they could play anything and I wouldn’t know the difference.

I somehow managed to make myself look presentable in jeans and a white blouse. At least my hair no longer looks like a fright wig.

Zoe’s Prius looks extremely out of place parked next to all of the massive pickup trucks that line the parking lot.

Are you sure about this? I ask as we exit her car.

The closer we get to the place the shabbier it looks. If the exterior is any indication of what the clientele looks like, I’m in trouble.

You need this, Maya. You need to find a wild stallion you can ride all night long. And you’re going to find one in this bar.

I think I’ll be lucky to find an old mule in this place.

Funny. She grabs my arm and pulls me into the bar with her.

The place is dingy and smells like sweat and stale beer. Memories of parties in fraternity house basements come racing back. Even in college I was a good girl who wasn’t into hookups like a lot of my classmates.

It makes me wonder what I’m doing here trolling for men. 

It’s not that bad, Zoe whispers as she glances around the grungy looking