Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
“ PULSE, I THINK I’m getting sick. Can you look at my throat?”
The only thing louder than Jinx’s laugh was his whine, and his laugh broke the sound barrier, which made listening to him whine unbearable.
“What the fuck is me looking at your throat going to do for you?” Pulse looked up from his burrito into the pitiful face of his club brother. To be fair, Jinx’s eyes were puffy, his skin paler than its usual deep tan, and his nose was raw from frequent tissue use. Even a layperson could recognize that he felt like garbage.
Jinx’s hulking body dropped onto a barstool next to Pulse. He frowned. “What do you mean?”
Shrugging, Pulse pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at the huge guy who never failed to act like an oversized child when he was sick. Men everywhere balked at the term man flu , but then Jinx went and proved all their irritated significant others right. “I mean, I won’t be able to tell you shit by looking at your throat. If you think you’re sick, go see a doctor.”
Horror transformed Jinx’s expression from sullen to indignant in a second. “A doctor? Fuck no. I’d rather die of tonsilitis or whatever the fuck I have.”
Pulse snorted. “You’re not going to die. You’re just being a baby.”
“Puulse…” The whine was back and as pathetic as ever.
“He might die,” Spec called from across the room. “If he doesn’t stop pissing and moaning, I’ll have no choice but to kill him.” He disappeared into the kitchen with a case of beer on his shoulder.
“Come on, man, you’re a medical professional. Help me out. Think of the mess if Spec kills me. You know that fucker doesn’t ever do it neat and tidy.”
Pulse stared at him. “I’m a trauma and ER nurse.”
Jinx sniffed, and it sounded like he was working his hardest to keep a gallon of snot from pouring out of his nose. “And?”
A huff came from across the room. “Oh my God, Jinx. Are you harassing Pulse after I told you to leave the poor guy alone?” Harper sidled up to her ol’ man, folded her arms over her chest, and glared. “Sorry, Pulse. I tried to spare you from his serious case of the grumpies.”
Chuckling, he stood and greeted Harper with a kiss on her smooth cheek. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Comes with the territory.” That was true. As the club’s solo medical professional, his brothers asked him for advice on everything from hangnails to bullet wounds. He preferred the latter and tolerated the former.
Sometimes.
“Why you so nice to her and so mean to me?” Jinx grumbled as he snaked an arm around Harper’s waist and pulled her onto his lap.
“Because she’s so much better-looking than you are.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” Jinx said, leaning in for a kiss.
“Oh, no.” Harper arched away from his searching lips. “Do not bring that germy mouth anywhere near me until you are feeling better. The shelter opens tomorrow, and I cannot be sick.”
Jinx pouted. “Baby…”
“Look, brother, if you’re feeling like shit, go home, take some cold medicine, and sleep it off. That’s all anyone would tell you to do right now. That and drink lots of fluids.”
Jinx lifted his near-empty tumbler of whisky. “Working on that one.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Tried that,” Harper muttered while Jinx said, “I can’t leave. We’re having a party,” as though missing so much as five minutes of fun was unfathomable.
Spec stuck his head out from the kitchen. “Fire’s roaring, and drinks are flowing. Come on out, you three.”
Instead of taking the sound advice of resting and drinking something besides alcohol, Jinx gathered Harper in his arms and hopped to his feet. “Let’s go, baby,” he shouted before sneezing so loud the damn clubhouse shook.
“Oh my God,” Harper shrieked. “You sneezed on me, you big ogre. Put me down!”
Pulse shook his head. This place was a madhouse on a good day. Throw in a celebration, and the chaos ramped tenfold.
But they were the only family he had.
A family he sometimes felt like an outsider around but still valued above anything else in his life. The occasional discomfort was his fault. He had secrets he could never divulge and thick scars that prevented him from letting people get too close—even his brothers, who he’d kill and die for. The same went for their ol’ ladies.
Now that every damn man in the club had coupled up, he was even more of the black sheep. But it was all right. He was safe there and had the brotherhood he’d craved since the day he left his life as an undercover Del Rios Cartel member.
How fucked up was that?
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.
Forget no more drinking. He leaned forward and snagged a beer from an ice bucket on the ground.
“What are you doing here?” Jo barked without an ounce of warmth.
“We’re looking for Max Vargas. I believe he is known to you as Pulse.”
He froze, beer hovering near his lips as all eyes swiveled his way.
Max. Fuck, he hadn’t gone by that name since the day he tossed his resignation on his boss’ desk five years ago. No one, not one single person in his current life, knew him as Max Vargas. He’d legally and officially changed his name when he’d moved.
These assholes knew precisely who he was, and that sucked. He set the beer down and cleared his throat. “I’m Max. Who are you?”
“Mr. Childs, please stand.”
Fuck that. He didn’t so much as twitch. “I’m not doing shit until you tell me who you are.”
“The fuck?” Jinx muttered. “Isn’t his name Gabe?”
“Pulse,” Jo whispered. “They’re cops.”
Yeah, that much he got.
The female cop had a pixie haircut and an annoyed expression. Her face was slender with sharp, makeup-free cheekbones and a pointy nose. She stared him down as he’d done to his fair share of criminals in the past while reaching into her blazer lapel. “I’m Detective Wallace, and this is my partner, Detective McGee.”
Twin badges gleamed in the light.
“Please stand.”
Ty stepped toward him, as did Curly, but McGee held out a hand, halting them in their tracks. The detective wasn’t tall—he might hit five-foot-nine on a good day. Bulky muscles made up in width what he lacked in height. Not someone he’d want to receive a punch from. The detective’s stature reminded him of Enrique. Just what he needed—to be dragged back in his mind to those days. Calling him Max had done it, reminded of time undercover with the Del Rios Cartel.
The worst thing that could happen tonight would be for the detectives to inform his club exactly who Max Vargas was. Thankfully, as an undercover agent, his former DEA status wasn’t publicly searchable for his safety, so if his brothers got curious and googled him, they’d come up empty.
Mostly.
That didn’t mean these detectives wouldn’t blurt it out if they got annoyed with his lack of cooperation.
He set the beer down as he stood. “Something wrong, Detectives?”
Wallace whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “Max Vargas, you’re under arrest for the assault of Alicia Minor. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“What the fuck?” What a load of horse shit. “Who’s Alicia Minor?”
Instead of answering, the cop rattled off the Miranda warning.
Jo jumped to her feet. “Wallace, what the fuck is this?”
“This is an arrest, Jo. You know how this works.” Her thin nose turned up. “Or you used to.”
“Oh my God, Ty, we have to do something.” Kelsie’s fear made his heart clench. That girl had been through so much shit recently she didn’t need anything else to stress about.
“You didn’t answer my question. Who the fuck is Alicia Minor?”
Wallace turned him around with a rough hand on his shoulder. “She’s a prostitute who works a corner in Tampa.”
Cool metal clasped around his wrists with a deafening click. Memories tried to assault him—Camila appearing where she shouldn’t have been, Enrique encouraging her to fire on the agents, Camila’s body riddled with bullets. Sweat broke out across his forehead as he shoved those horrors back into their box.
“Miss Minor was found beaten and bloody earlier tonight,” Wallace said. “She was able to give us a name and description that both match you perfectly.”
“What the fuck?” What was this? He’d worked in Tampa earlier but came straight from his shift to the clubhouse long before dark when the streets woke up. He whirled around and stared at Wallace, trying to find any indication of what she was playing at.
“Pulse, don’t say another word.” Jo had her phone in hand, no doubt calling the club’s attorney.
Wallace’s eyes held a twinkle as though she was enjoying this fucked-up game a little too much. Whatever this was, these detectives did not think he’d roughed up some prostitute. Something deeper was going on. And that was more terrifying than if he’d been arrested for an actual assault.
He narrowed his eyes and said what anyone would in his situation. “But I didn’t—”
Jo pointed at him. “Not another goddamn word until the club’s attorney gets there. Got me?”
He only had the chance to nod before the detectives were leading him away in cuffs as he’d done to so many criminals in his former life.