Pulse

Chapter 4

Troy

“She specifically requests you.”

I growl, slipping off my jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair in the foyer. My conversation with Ford earlier echoes through my brain as I walk down the hallway.

“If I do that, you’re taking option two.”

“Fuck,” I mumble, removing my shirt and tie, and throwing them like a football into the laundry room as I pass. They fall unceremoniously into the center of the basket next to the washer.

The evening sun drenches the house in a muted glow. The warmth that bathes the white walls reminds me of a picture from a magazine. A rainbow stretches across the black leather sofa as if a pot of gold sits on the other side, not a gray rug.

The golden hour is my favorite time of the day. Everything is a bit warmer, a little softer—a striking difference from my normal course of business. Moments like this, when I’m tucked away in my home and surrounded by my favorite things, are what I most look forward to when the sun is shining.

And that’s becoming a problem.

I let out a breath and allow my shoulders to fall.

“Want me to tell Ford that I refuse to work on the Kelley case? If we both say we won’t, what can he do?”

I smile at the memory—and from the warmth rippling throughout my body, a product of Dahlia’s response.

Her reply came immediately. Fiercely. She unequivocally had my back.

It’s so fucking sexy. She’s so fucking sexy.

She’s a standalone in a trio of people who I absolutely trust, something I struggle with daily. Ford and I have been through some serious shit, and he’s never wavered. He’s always had my back. And my brother, Travis, has been my ride or die since the day he was born. We, too, have battled through unsavory situations and came out on the other side as survivors because we had each other. But Dahlia? There’s no reason for her to be so loyal to me. Yet I don’t question it—although I probably should.

“What the fuck am I going to do?” I groan, pulling my phone from my pocket. I set aside my thoughts and answer my brother’s call.

“Hey, Trav,” I say, entering the kitchen.

“Hey. Are you home by any chance? I had to run to the hardware store five minutes from your house. Thought I’d stop by if you aren’t busy.”

“I’m here. About to make a sandwich. Want one?”

“I’ll do you one better. I’m in the drive-through right now. Want a burger?”

“Sure.”

“Be there in a minute.”

The call ends, and I slide my phone onto the countertop. I grab a bottle of water and head to the living room.

Guilt weighs heavy on my shoulders as I sink into my favorite chair near the fireplace. Ford’s offer lingers in my head, reminding me of the decision that must be made. It’s a choice that most people would kill for, and I’m a fuck for being put out by it.

Do I take a fantastic job that pays entirely too much or a paid vacation that pays more than I deserve? What terrible options.

I sigh, resting my head against the chair and closing my eyes. The stillness of the house covers me, helping me recenter. As the tension I’ve carried all day eases across the back of my neck, the truth finds an opening to slip into focus.

It’s not the job or the vacation that has me frustrated. It’s not Laina’s screaming fanbase or having too much time on my hands.

It’s my life.

“Knock, knock,” Travis says as the front door opens and then closes. “They were out of pickles. Can you believe that shit? How does a fast-food joint run out of pickles?” He drops a bag onto my lap. “That would be like you running out of bullshit. It’s a main ingredient of the brand.”

“Did you work on that analogy all the way over here?”

“No, it just came to me in the moment. I’m brilliant like that.”

We exchange a smile.

My younger brother tears into his meal with the same gusto he’s had since he was a toddler. The nostalgia warms my heart. The reason behind it cools it just as fast.

“Slow down,” I tell him, taking my burger from the bag like a civilized individual. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“I know.” He chuckles around a mouthful of french fries. “I forget that I’m a grown-ass man who has his own money and can buy all the food he wants.”

He swallows so much at once that I can see it move down his throat.

“So what did you do today?” I ask.

“I about fell off a roof.”

“You like to keep things interesting, don’t you?”

He grins. “Says the guy who intentionally puts himself in the line of fire daily.”

I unwrap my burger, remove the onions, and take a bite.

“As I was hanging off the gutter, waiting on Bradley to bring me a ladder, I had a moment to ponder life and its great mysteries.”

“Oh really?” I ask, amused. It’s hard to tell if Travis is serious and almost fell or if he’s making up a story to entertain me. He developed the skill over the many days we would walk the neighborhood, waiting to be let back into the house. We were two kids with no business wandering the streets and seeing and hearing things we had no business witnessing. “What did you come up with?”

“More questions than answers, really. For example, if you consume half of a five-hour energy drink, do you get two and a half hours of energy, or five hours’ worth in two and a half hours?”

I chuckle, shaking my head.

“When you’re at the movie theater, which armrest is yours? It can’t be both because every other person won’t have one. I mean, the newer theaters have individual seats, so the obvious answer is to go to one of them. But the older ones are more cost-effective for a guy on a budget, so it’s a problem. Also, why is there a caloric number on a pack of gum? You’re chewing it, not eating it.”

“And you thought of all this while hanging on the gutter?”

“Yeah. Then I realized the number nine is brown, and that really fucked me up.”

Huh? “You know what? I’m not even going to touch that one.”

He shrugs, unbothered, and shoves half of his burger into his mouth. He speaks again, but it’s garbled.

“It’s perfectly acceptable to wait until you swallow to talk,” I say.

Travis rolls his eyes, swallows, and then reaches for his drink. “I asked you what you did today.”

“I’m in the office this week, so I got caught up on paperwork. Ford had me ride along to a couple of meetings this afternoon. Otherwise, not much.”

“Where are you heading next?”

I put my burger on the wrapper and exhale. Travis slows his chewing and sets his down as well. He understands what I’m about to say without me saying it—the gist of it anyway. The ability to read each other like a book is the product of our youth.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his brow lifted.

The tension I’ve been warring with since this morning pulls at the back of my neck again. I run a hand over the top of my head and scratch my scalp. The pain causes my nervous system to release endorphins, which helps my irritation. That’s helpful because I won’t take my mood out on my brother.

“If I tell you, you’ll laugh,” I say.

“Try me.”

One corner of my mouth tugs toward the ceiling. “I have to decide whether to return to Laina’s team or to take a vacation.”

“If it were me,” he says, popping a single fry into his mouth, “I’d take the vacation.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

Travis sighs and rests his elbows on his knees. “Look, we deal with our childhood trauma differently. You keep yourself in amped-up situations so you can’t think about all the shit our parents did to us. I take the opposite approach and joke about everything to avoid my emotions.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that my way of coping is better. At least I have fun.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m serious,” he says, laughing. “You have to balance things out—trade bullets for beaches. Shots for sand. Clients for?—”

“Enough.” I shake my head, chuckling. “That’s enough analogies for one day.”

“What would be so terrible about getting away for a while?”

“It’s not that,” I admit, putting my food next to Travis’s on the coffee table and then standing. “I mean, that’s a part of it. A big part of it. But it’s just …”

I wander around my living room, taking in the decor on the walls and mantel—a collection of images and memorabilia hand-picked to make me not want to jump out of the window.

The guys from my unit and me in front of a truck moments after one of them learned he’d just become a father. A statue I bought in Italy on a whim. A picture of Travis and me on his twenty-first birthday—just before he puked all over my shirt. There’s a snapshot of our dog, Ralph, sitting beside me and Travis that I included because the way our faces are lit up in laughter is one of the few childhood images I have that capture a genuine happiness from that period.

I just have to forget that Dad kicked Ralph so hard a few minutes after Mom took this picture that Ralph limped for the rest of his life.

My eyes close, and I shove the memory out of my mind.

My life has been lived, and it’s been lived a hell of a lot harder and faster than most people. I’ve traveled, survived explosions, and saved lives. I’ve partied, read books, and climbed a volcano. I have a job I love, a house I never imagined I would afford, and a small number of people around me who I care about deeply. But still …

“It’s just what?” Travis asks.

I lean against the fireplace and look at my brother. “I don’t know. Pointless, maybe. Hollow. What’s the purpose of it all?”

His face sobers.

“I’m being dramatic.” I stop. “You know, I was around Lincoln Landry all day. It kind of makes sense that I’m acting like an asshole.”

Travis laughs.

I move back to my chair and sit. “You’re right when you say I’ve chosen to live a life that keeps me occupied, and I’ve loved every damn minute of it. It’s afforded me a great standard of living.”

“Speaking of which, will you pay me back for dinner?”

I ignore him. “But the danger I used to get off on isn’t thrilling anymore. The high-pressure shit isn’t as exciting.”

“So take a vacation.”

“And then what? Sit around, thinking about all of the shit that’s gone wrong in my life?”

“I hear it’s good to face your demons.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“I’ve been fucking Lola. I’ve done more than face a demon lately. A demon would be a walk in the park.”

I grin.

“Maybe you need someone to spend time with. Have you seen anyone in a while?”

“This isn’t a problem I can fuck my way out of, Trav, but thanks.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try.”

Instead of answering him, I flip on the television.

“Leave it to you to watch the local evening news,” Travis says. “I didn’t know that was still a thing.”

I motion for him to pay attention to the headlines and not me.

“Have you seen anyone in a while?”

Travis’s question wasn’t meant to be serious … I don’t think. Little does he know that’s the crux of my problem.

I’m fucking lonely.

A burning sensation prickles my chest.

It hit me a few weeks ago in the middle of the night. I woke up at three in the morning after a nightmare and, for the first time in my life, wished that someone was here. That I wasn’t alone. That the bed beside me wasn’t empty. That someone might be here when I came home from work, excited to see me.

The idea has followed me ever since. Eating alone has bothered me. Sitting in the living room and reading a book by myself feels off. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve enjoyed up until the nightmare, all feels … wrong. Less. Incomplete.

But what can I do?

Maybe it’s a midlife crisis. I did turn thirty-seven last month. It’s the only explanation for why the job I love no longer fulfills me. It must be why I’m suddenly wishing, or at least considering, that I had a significant other—something I’ve intentionally avoided most of my life. There’s no other reason I’m suddenly wishing I could have more in my life when I know I can’t. People don’t change directions that fast without a catalyst.

“Hey, isn’t that Dahlia’s dad?” Travis asks, pointing at the screen.

I turn up the volume.

“In other news, Joseph Dallo was in court this morning. As you’ll recall, Dallo, owner of the scrap metal recovery and recycling company known as Dallo Metalworks, is accused of money laundering, mail and wire fraud, and drug conspiracy by prosecutors. George Lee is at the courthouse with the latest. George, can you tell us what happened today?”

A man in a red shirt fills the screen. “Hi, Simone. Attorneys were in court this morning to discuss the defense’s motion to suppress evidence. The defense claims Dallo’s constitutional rights were violated, and all related evidence is thereby inadmissible. The judge is expected to rule on the motion next week. We’ll keep you posted. Back to you, Simone.”

I turn the volume down and toss the remote next to my burger.

My stomach tightens as I think about Dahlia.

“That trial’s going to be a shit show,” Travis says.

“No doubt.”

“Has Dahlia said anything about it?”

I scrub my hand down my face. “No, not really. I get the impression she doesn’t want to discuss it, so I don’t bring it up. It’s none of my business, anyway.”

Travis looks at me, unimpressed.

“We’d only been working together for about six months when she found out Dallo was her father,” I say. “We talked about him a little then. She brought it up when he was arrested, but that’s about it.”

“It would have to be hard for her to know that everyone knows her dad is accused of working with a cartel.”

I lift a brow. He lifts his right back.

“Yeah, well, we know a thing or two about that,” I mutter, sitting back again.

“No one really knows she’s Dallo’s daughter, though, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

I nod. “Yeah. When the whole thing happened and Dallo contacted her, Dahlia was in disbelief for a while. All she knew about him was that he was shady. They agreed to keep her identity quiet and not make it public information. Seems like a good call, in retrospect.”

“Dammit.” Travis glances at his phone. “I’m sorry, Troy. I gotta get going. I need to drop a load of tools off at the jobsite before they lock it up for the night, and Bradley just texted me that they’re winding down over there.” He gets to his feet and reaches for his trash.

“I’ll clean up. Don’t worry about it.”

He grins. “Thanks. Hit me up if you’re not busy this weekend, and we’ll hang out.”

“Will do.”

“Later.”

“Bye.”

He leaves, the door closing swiftly behind him.

I blow out a breath and sink into the leather.

“… money laundering, mail and wire fraud, and drug conspiracy by prosecutors.”

My throat burns as I imagine Dahlia listening to that. She’s so tough, so sweet—so undeserving of being tied up in that shit. But you’d never know it. She always has a smile on her pretty face.

I nibble at my bottom lip, wondering if there’s anything I can do for her. Is she okay? Should I ask her about it or leave it alone? I have no damn clue.

Even if the world doesn’t know Dallo is her father, she does.

And I do.

And it fucking bothers me.

My jaw flexes as I consider all the ways that relationship could hurt her.

And all the ways I’d destroy the person responsible.