Page 7 of Pulse

Returning to the real world had been more complicated than acclimating to a life of crime in a drug cartel. The DEA’s psychologists would have had a field day with that information had he let them poke at his brain. But he hadn’t.

After two weeks of leave, gallons of liquor, and countless hours of self-recrimination, he’d turned in his notice and vanished before his mandatory counseling and reintegration sessions.

From there, he’d struggled for a few years, bouncing around shit jobs and wallowing in self-pity. It was a lonely time that nearly crushed him. As fucked up and evil as cartel life had been, it’d given him something he hadn’t realized he’d craved—something that filled a gaping hole in his life.

A brotherhood.

Family.

People who gave a shit about him.

Eventually, he’d pulled his head out of his ass and gone to nursing school, a career on the opposite end of the job spectrum from being a federal agent—saving lives rather than destroying them.

At one point, he’d met Ty when the man suffered a nasty case of road rash in a bike accident. They’d bonded over a love of motorcycles and became friends. Eventually, Ty told him about his cousin, Curly, the wrongfully imprisoned MC president looking for solid guys to start a new club.

From federal agent to one percenter.

Fuck, if the club ever found out he’d been a fed, Spec would make the torture he’d witnessed in the cartel look like child’s play.

“Dude, you okay?” The man in question stood near the kitchen, staring at Pulse with a frown.

“What? Yeah, sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

“Shitty day at work?”

No. He loved every second of his job. Maybe he’d one day help save enough lives to make up for the one he hadn’t been able to save.

“Uh, yeah. Stressful shift.” He strode toward Spec and gestured for the man to precede him into the kitchen.

Spec slapped him on the back. “Let that shit go, brother. It’s family time.”

Nodding, he followed his brother through the kitchen and out behind the clubhouse, where chairs had been set around a roaring bonfire. A few hours and too many drinks later, the conversation turned to the reason for their celebration. The women’s shelter the ol’ ladies had been working their asses off to perfect would open its doors and accept its first client tomorrow.

Pulse was so damn proud to be part of this group.

“Hey,” Jinx shouted, seeming to have found a cure at the bottom of the whisky bottle. “Speech! Brookie, give us a speech.”

“Speech, speech.” Pulse participated in the chorus of chants. Thankfully, the alcohol loosened him up and helped chase away his reflective mood.

“All right, all right.” Brooke climbed off Curly’s lap. She swayed, almost losing her champagne flute, then giggled at herself.

“I think it goes without saying, I… we…” She waved her hand, indicating the other ladies. “Couldn’t have done any of this without the help of every single person here. So much blood, sweat, and tears have gone into creating a safe space for women. Tomorrow will be an amazing day, and I want to thank you all for supporting Liv and me in our lofty idea. This project is special for so many reasons, but the main one is how it has allowed me to grow closer to all of you wonderful ladies.” She sniffled and chuckled. “Damn allergies,” she said, swiping at her watery eyes. “You’re my sisters in every way that counts, and I can’t wait to take this journey with all of you.”

Spec raised his glass with a shout. “To the ol’ ladies.”

“Hell yeah,” Pulse yelled.

“I’ll drink to that.”

It was time to stop drinking when the whisky no longer burned. He had to work a partial shift from seven to eleven tomorrow morning, covering for a coworker, and couldn’t do his job with a raging hangover, so he set down his empty glass and refused Jinx’s offer of another.

They all stayed for a bit longer. Ty and a very drunk Kelsie were the first to announce their departure.

As they said their goodbyes and goodnights, the telltale crunch of leaves crushing under a boot had everyone’s heads swiveling toward the intrusion.

Two people in rumpled suits strode toward them with severe expressions and a pompous air of authority. Pulse could have tagged them as cops from a mile away.

“What the hell?” Jo’s spine snapped to attention. As a former police officer, she’d probably worked with them at one point and looked about as happy to see them as Pulse felt. Hell, there wasn’t a single man or woman sitting around that fire who was comfortable in the presence of cops.

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