Primal Instinct (11 page)

T
aylor opened her eyes slowly and rolled over in bed, pulling the covers tighter around her shoulders and burrowing her head into the pillow. After an hour of restless tossing and turning, her mind spinning with anything and everything to do with Colt, she'd finally drifted off into a light, uneasy sleep. She let her eyelids fall again and had just started to sink back into sleep when a steady, sharp knocking pulled her back to the surface. Tension snapping through her, she pushed herself up to sitting and rubbed a hand over her face, listening to the knocking echo through her silent house. She grabbed her phone to check the time: 1:04
A.M.

The knocking stopped for a second, and she curled her fingers around her phone, holding it against her chest. She forced herself to take a shaky breath and then threw back the covers. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, and before she reached the guest room at the front of the house, the knocking started again, louder and more insistent this time. She jumped and her phone fell out of her hand, clattering on the hardwood floor. Scooping it up, she hurried to the guest room just as Colt flung open the door, his gun clutched in one hand, wearing nothing but a pair of snug, black boxer briefs. His hair was mussed and a faint crease line adorned one cheek.

Pushing past him and into the room, Taylor peeked cautiously through the curtains. A Harley sat in her driveway, and her chest constricted almost painfully. Even now, all these years later, the sight of that black-and-orange logo churned her stomach, making her want to heave.

“Do you know who that is?” Colt's voice rumbled from behind her, low and rough with sleep. He peered over her shoulder, his breath fanning against her shoulder.

“My…my dad.” She held completely still, barely even breathing, her skin both too hot and too cold at the same time. She watched as her father paced from her front door into her driveway, peering up at the house, and with a gasp, she ducked down under the window. Colt turned to head down the stairs, but she reached out, her hand brushing his bare calf. “Don't. Please. Just wait for him to go.”

Somehow, he'd found her, and was now intent on banging down her door in the middle of the night. All the strength slid out of her muscles, and she sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest as her heart pushed up into her throat. Fear and anger coiled into tight little knots in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She hated that after all these years, he still had this kind of power over her.

“I know you're in there! Taylor!” Something crashed against the door, rattling it. “I need to talk to you. Get out here!”

“I'm not just going to stand here while he tries to break your goddamn door down.” Colt checked the clip on his gun and again moved toward the bedroom door.

“No! Colt, he's dangerous. Please, just wait with me. Please don't leave me alone.”

His nostrils flared as he looked out the window, toward the door, and back down at where Taylor was crouched on the floor. She looked up at him, and she felt as though flames were licking at her skin. The sight of him above her—muscles tensed, gun clutched in one big hand, practically naked—seared through her, and the tiniest whimper pushed its way past her lips. In the semidark, their eyes met, and something in his expression softened. After a second, he sank onto the floor beside her and slipped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. She closed her eyes and pressed her face into him, using the steady beat of his heart against her cheek to anchor herself against the fear until after several minutes, the knocking stopped, and the roar of a motorcycle ripped through the night.

Colt stroked a hand over Taylor's messy blond hair as tension radiated across his jaw. He clamped his teeth together, fighting the urge to go out there and confront the man who'd made the blood drain from Taylor's face. Whatever the bastard had done to make Taylor so afraid of him, Colt wanted to make him pay for it. “You okay?”

She eased away from him, twisting her fingers together, and an almost overwhelming sense of protectiveness rocked into him, tilting his world for a second. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey.” He slipped a hand under her chin and tipped her face up. “Nothing to be sorry for. I'm here to protect you, no matter what. Keep your sorries, gorgeous.”

Her breathing hitched and her lip trembled. With a gasping sigh, a tear slid down her cheek, and Colt pulled her back into his arms. She tensed, but as he ran a hand down her back, she relaxed into him, her face pressed against his neck. For several moments, he just held her, not saying anything, not asking all of the questions he wanted to ask.

All too soon, she pulled away, wiping hastily at her eyes, and he saw the shields go back up as she stood up and moved away from him.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I didn't do anything, but you're welcome.” He stood, studying her. “So your dad's bad news, huh?”

“Yeah. He…” She shrugged. “He was pretty rough with me when I was a kid.”

Something in Colt's chest tightened, and he wanted to pull her back into his arms. Based on how scared she'd been, there was more to it than that. “You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Does he do this a lot?”

She shook her head again. “I haven't seen him in years. But he…he texted me a few days ago.” She turned and sat on Colt's unmade bed, and he didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on the rumpled sheets before darting back to him. He crossed his arms over his chest, steeling himself against how badly he wanted to join her on that bed and make her forget about everything except how good he could make her feel.

“What did he want? When he texted you, I mean.”

She fisted her hands in the sheets. “Just said he wanted to see me. I told him to fuck off, and I changed my number.” She looked down at the floor, dragging her toes across the hardwood. “I didn't know he knew where I lived.”

“What did you mean when you warned me he was dangerous?”

She swallowed, and he could've sworn he saw her shiver. “When I was a kid, he was a member of the Grim Weavers. I'm pretty sure he still is. Still had the Harley and the vest tonight.”

Shit. The Grim Weavers were one of the most notorious outlaw biker gangs in California. Roman had done a cursory background check on Taylor, standard operating procedure for any new client they took on, but this hadn't popped up. Probably because her father wasn't in her life, and she likely hid the connection as much as she could. He knew he would have, in her shoes. His heart ached for Taylor, growing up with a nasty biker for a dad. Again, he wanted to reach for her, but he knew she'd just pull away again, so he stayed right where he was, arms still crossed.

“What's his name?”

“Frank Ross.”

“I have a buddy who's an investigator. I want to see what we can dig up on him, find out why he's suddenly popping back up.”

She nodded and stood from the bed, and he couldn't take it anymore. He slowly crossed the room and pulled her into his arms again, slipping his arms around her waist. “I'm glad I'm here, Taylor, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Me too.” She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed softly.

“I'm not going to let anything happen to you, gorgeous. You're safe with me.”

She trembled slightly and then lifted her head from his shoulder, her lips parted slightly and only inches from his. A tension hung between them, shimmering in the air like heat. He inched his face closer to hers, waiting for her to pull away. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth and she dipped her head slightly, grazing her nose against his cheek.

Steeling himself against the excitement shooting through him and stiffening his dick, he took a steadying breath—which was a mistake, because that deep inhale brought with it the sweet, warm scent of her skin. It made him want to bury his face in her neck and taste the skin where her pulse beat.

She pressed her hips against him, and he knew she could feel how hard he was. She leaned forward until her lips were millimeters from his ear. “Thank you.”

His hands splayed across her back as he pulled her tighter against him; her nipples were tight little buds under the thin cotton of her T-shirt. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tracing her delicate jaw with the tips of his fingers.

“You're welcome.” He pressed a kiss to the center of her throat, and her eyes fluttered closed.

“Fuck,” she breathed, as he trailed his mouth over her collarbone, leaving goose bumps in his wake.

His hands skated up her back and into her hair, and he gave the locks tangled around his fingers a gentle tug, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want you so fucking much, Taylor.”

“Colt.” His name was a strangled sigh on her lips, and he dipped his head, his lips teasing the shell of her ear as he spoke.

“Tell me that night didn't mean anything to you.”

She pulled back and met his gaze, not saying anything. She didn't need to, because everything he needed was right there in those beautiful blue eyes. Every single cell in his body roared to life as he closed his mouth over hers in a tender, gentle kiss. She moaned, and then pulled back almost immediately. Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers to her mouth.

“I'm going to bed. Alone.” She turned and left without a backward glance.

The limo ride from the Staples Center to the Standard Bar after the awards show took nearly twenty minutes, despite the fact that the two locations were less than a mile and a half apart. Colt shifted in his seat next to the driver and stared at the rows of red taillights on either side of the street. It didn't matter that it was well past rush hour; shitty traffic was a fact of life in Los Angeles.

Taylor's laugh echoed from the back, even though the divider was up. She was back there with some suits from Walker's label, and Walker, who, Colt had noticed, had been eyeing Taylor all night the way a starving man eyes a steak. It sent tension radiating up his neck, into his jaw and over his scalp.

But Colt had been the one to kiss her last night. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the tightening pull low in his stomach as he replayed that night again, remembering how she'd felt underneath him, her mouth on his, her legs wound around his eager hips. He lost himself in the memory of all the different ways he'd made her moan and beg. Of how good it had felt to hear his name in that raspy voice as he'd discovered exactly how she liked to be touched, where she liked to be kissed.

Pushing it aside, he gave his head a subtle shake, knowing he was in over his head with this woman. He shouldn't be chasing her the way he was. She was running, and he should let her. He knew he was fucked up because of the terrible shit he'd seen. The truth was, he cared about Taylor, and if he wasn't a selfish asshole, he'd want something better for her than anything he could offer. And yet he wanted Taylor. Wanted to protect her, and comfort her, and feel the slide of her skin against his again.

The limo pulled to a stop in front of the Standard, where a red carpet and a black-and-gold backdrop featuring the logo of Metro Music Nashville—Walker's label and the sponsors of the post-awards party—lined the walkway in front of the entrance. In a cordoned-off area behind velvet ropes, rows of photographers waited, cameras poised. Walker and Taylor hit the carpet together, Colt following a few feet behind, his eyes scanning the crowd for any potential threats. Walker slid his arm around Taylor, his fingers curling over her slender waist. She smiled at him and then leaned in and whispered something in his ear, which earned her a smoldering look from Walker. Swallowing, Colt worked his jaw loose, fearing he'd crack a tooth with the pressure he was putting on his back molars. Tamping down the jealousy churning his gut, he returned his attention to the crowd and tried to focus on simply doing his job.

Inside, the party was already in full swing, rowdy country music thumping from the speakers. The walls were awash in gold and red lights that served to illuminate the space while casting the buttery-yellow leather booths lining the walls into shadow. Waitresses in tight red cocktail dresses circulated through the crowd carrying trays laden with beer, shots of tequila, shakers of salt, and bowls of lime wedges. The far wall glittered with lights that were flashing and pulsing in time with the music. At one of the booths, a tray with several lines of white powder was being passed around, along with a rolled up hundred-dollar bill. Dread dropped into Colt's stomach like a weight. He must've been wearing his apprehension plain as day, because Taylor turned toward him and touched his arm.

“Relax. I don't do drugs.” She shot him a reassuring smile, walking past the booth with the cocaine.

“I'm glad to hear it.” And he meant it.

She shook her head and snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, well, hold the parade. I'm just scared I'd like them too much.” Something angry and raw flashed in her eyes. “God knows my mom did.” She stilled and the light in her eyes changed. “She OD'd when I was fourteen.”

“I'm sorry.” He'd known from the background report that her mother had died over fifteen years ago. Out of respect for her privacy, given the nature of the job, he hadn't dug any further than that. But now an empathetic ache bloomed in his chest, along with a sudden, intense, almost overwhelming need to comfort her. He wanted to know more, to take some of that pain he'd glimpsed and carry it for her. Before he could open his mouth, one of the waitresses circled close by, making eye contact with Colt and smiling, winking and tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sashayed away.

“Go on and get you some, cowboy,” said Taylor in his ear before giving him a smack on the ass, grabbing Walker's hand and leading him toward the bar. Following several feet behind, Colt watched as Taylor laughed at something Walker said and then lifted his cowboy hat off his head and plunked it down on her own, tilting it at a flirty angle. Sidling up to the bar, Walker grabbed two shots of tequila and slid one to Taylor, who downed hers like a champ.