Primal Instinct (12 page)

A commotion near the door caught his attention before he could find an inconspicuous spot along the wall, and he set himself between Taylor, who was several feet away at the bar, and the disturbance, his shoulders tensed, bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Y'all gonna let me in, or what?” A tiny blonde emerged from the crowd, and Colt recognized her instantly. Monroe Bell had just walked in.

I
s it working?” Taylor asked, leaning in to shout in Walker's ear over the loud music. Lifting his head, he looked in Colt's direction before trailing a hand up her arm.

“Oh, yeah. Dude's jealous as hell.”

She smiled, satisfaction shooting through her. “Thanks for helping me with this, Walk.”

He glanced at Colt again, smiling skeptically. “I get punched, you owe me.”

“I owe you regardless.” She laid a hand on his thick forearm and gave him a friendly squeeze.

He took a sip of his beer, his tongue swiping away a stray drop that clung to his full lower lip. Taylor watched, and she found herself wondering if kissing Walker would be going too far in her mission to piss Colt off and push him away. Before she'd made up her mind, Walker leaned in and shouted a question in her ear.

“So why you doing this, sweetheart? If you want him, just go get him. You're torturing the guy.”

Taylor brought her beer to her lips, trying to find a way to explain. She wasn't torturing Colt because she was pissed at him, but pissed at herself. She'd come so close to letting him back into her bed last night—
twice
—and it was such a terrible idea. And yet…she'd been so relieved he was there last night. She'd felt safe, just knowing that he was in the house.

She couldn't help but wonder if she was letting what had happened with Zack scare her away from something potentially awesome. Which would be a terrible waste, now wouldn't it?

She swallowed thickly and looked over her shoulder at where Colt stood several feet away, but his attention was focused on the bar's entrance, where a five-foot-two blond hurricane was pushing her way in.

“Uh-oh,” she said, turning back to Walker, who'd also just noticed Monroe's presence.

“Shi-it,” he said, drawing it out into two syllables.

“You stupid, two-timing motherfucker!” yelled Monroe, spotting Taylor and Walker and making a beeline for them. “And you! You dumb bitch! I'm gonna kick your a—” The last word turned into a shriek as Colt scooped her up and tossed her over his wide shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Everyone in the party was now watching. The DJ cut the music, giving everyone the opportunity to listen to the confrontation.

Taylor pressed a fist to her mouth, hiding her laughter. One second, Monroe had been hell on high heels, steamrolling her way toward them, and the next, Colt was there, calm and sure. Sturdy, as always. She never would've thought she'd be so turned on by sturdy, but damn, was his dependability appealing.

Monroe struggled against Colt, who held her in place as though she were made of feathers. He didn't even look like he was trying. “Put me down! You have no right to touch me. I'll—”

“It's for your own safety, sweetheart. Because if I put you down, I'm pretty sure someone's gonna get her ass kicked, and my money's on that someone being you.” He met Taylor's eyes and winked and something inside her softened. The situation with Monroe could've been very bad if Colt hadn't stepped in, because anything between her and Monroe wouldn't have ended well, especially given all the shit Monroe had talked about Taylor in the tabloids.

“Roe, settle down. Let's go talk somewhere. All right?” Walker bent over to meet her eyes, her blond hair fanning out around her in a platinum curtain. “Taylor's got nothing to do with this. She and I are just friends. Honest.”

“Y'all were all over each other. I saw. You been fucking her, Walk?”

Colt glanced over his shoulder at Walker, clearly interested in the answer to Monroe's question.

“No. Taylor and I have only ever been friends.”

“Yeah, y'all sure looked friendly.” But Monroe had lost some steam and was calming down. Being helplessly pinned halfway upside down could have that effect on a girl.

“We were just joking around. Roe, she
asked
me to flirt with her, to…” Walker glanced up at Colt and shrugged.

Colt met Taylor's eyes and smiled that cocky smile, the one that crinkled the skin around his eyes and had her toes curling and thighs clenching.

“I put you down, you gonna behave?” Colt asked over his shoulder.

She waited a second before nodding, which looked more like head-banging since she was still suspended upside down. Bending his knees, Colt gently lowered her to the ground, watching her warily. Walker took her by the arm and led her out, everyone watching as they left.

Taylor turned back to the bar and picked up her beer, taking a long sip. What a mess. And yet based on the heat and intensity arcing between Walker and Monroe as they left the bar, Taylor would've bet good money that they'd be tearing each other's clothes off at the first opportunity.

“You know, if you'd told me I'd be picking up women tonight, that's
not
what I would've had in mind.” Colt leaned against the bar beside her, humor dancing in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his hair.

Unable to help herself, she bit her lip and laughed. God, it felt good just to be around him. And not just because he was so gorgeous she sometimes didn't feel like she could think straight when she looked at him. It was his sense of humor, his intelligence, his ability to keep her safe. Just
him
. Colt.

“Thanks for stepping in. I appreciate it.”

“That's what I'm here for. I've got your back.” He tapped the brim of her hat and leaned in closer. “I like this on you. It's cute.”

She felt her cheeks heat, his deep voice rumbling down her spine and making her want to arch into him. Laughing, she pulled the hat off and settled it on Colt's head. He adjusted it before giving her a fake-model-type stare, intense eyes and pursed lips, like Derek Zoolander's patented “blue steel” look. She laughed so hard she snorted and he broke, laughing along with her.

“I should get back to my post. Ma'am.” He touched the brim of his hat before stepping away from the bar.

Her heart thumped happily in her chest as she watched him.

Well, shit.

The scent of smoke filled Colt's nostrils, and he blinked rapidly against the harsh sunlight, his eyelids gritty with sand. The metallic rattle and pop of gunfire echoed around him, spraying up sand around his feet. Chunks of mortar rained down on him and knocked against his thick helmet. A bright flash in the distance cut the air and he ran forward, sweat pouring down his back, his rifle clutched in his hands.

“Benson, Gomez, get down!” He dived on the two soldiers just as a large blast rocked the ground underneath them. Colt set his M4 in front of him and reloaded it, then crouched on the ground, surrounded by men, sand and rock. He took aim and opened fire; the staccato burst of gunfire vibrated through him as he braced and squeezed the trigger again. “You get them in your sights, you fucking fire!” he shouted over his shoulder to his men.

For several long, tense minutes, the Third Ranger Battalion traded gunfire with the Taliban militia. They'd managed to push the militia out of the valley, finally, but they'd been fighting over the area for weeks.

The bullets suddenly stopped, and Benson looked over his shoulder at Colt. “Where they at, Sarge?” he asked, his voice loud in the sudden quiet.

A flash of something shiny caught Colt's eye. “East!” Bullets rained down like hail, followed by a deep, booming explosion that knocked him flat on his back, crushing the breath out of him. Sweat ran into his eyes as he struggled to get up and check on his men. His pulse pounded like a drum in his temples, and his vision swam. His ears rang, high-pitched and discordant, as he pushed to his feet. He spat out equal parts saliva, blood, and sand. Staggering forward, his feet tangled in something, and he fell. Glancing back, he saw what he'd tripped on and ground his teeth against the nausea rising up. It was a nausea he'd felt many times over the past ten years, but he'd never given into it. Not once.

Pushing the bloody, severed leg to the side, he wiped the sweat out of his eyes and moved forward on shaky legs, taking stock of the soldiers lying on the ground, some moving, some not. Heat pressed down on him, heavy and oppressive, and bullets began flying anew. He tripped again, and when he landed facedown in the dirt, his eyes came level with Benson's glassy, vacant stare. Another blast rocked the ground, and a searing pain bit into his shoulder. He struggled to push himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of the men he'd led into this valley and—

Colt bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding and sweat pouring down his face and chest in narrow streams. He sucked in several deep breaths and pressed his hands to his face as he tried to slow his racing pulse.

“Fuck,” he whispered aloud, bringing his legs toward his chest under the sweat-drenched sheet and resting his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands over his face, concentrating on his breathing. His temples throbbed, the familiar adrenaline-hangover headache setting in. Reaching his right arm across his body, he ran his fingers over his left shoulder, tracing the puckered scar left by the shrapnel, trying to feel lucky instead of guilty that he'd made it through. He took several deep breaths before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and clicking on the bedside light. He picked up his phone and checked the time: 3:13
A.M.
Fucking great.

Bracing his hands on his thighs, he pushed off the bed and padded to Taylor's kitchen in his bare feet and boxers. Opening the cabinet where he knew she kept her liquor, he pulled down the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. Its amber liquid gleamed with the promise of numbing the guilt, the anxiety, and the anger squeezing the air out of his lungs and making him want to hit something. He'd gone weeks without a nightmare, but this one had been bad. When they happened, they felt so real, so fucking visceral, that he might as well have been back in the Sandpit, staring into the dead eyes of a soldier whose death was Colt's fault.

Pouring a healthy amount of scotch into a tumbler, he put the bottle back into the cabinet before shuffling into the dark living room. The hardwood floor creaked softly under his feet as he settled into the black leather armchair looking out onto the terrace. The not-so-distant lights of Hollywood shone in the night, glimmering against the darkness. As he stared at the lights, white and yellow against the velvet purple of the sky, he raised his glass to his lips, closing his eyes against the welcome burn.

He slid down lower and rested his head against the back of the chair, trying not to think. Trying not to remember. Trying not to feel as though he had a giant hole in his sternum, sucking everything he had out of him and leaving him empty. He took another swallow of scotch and rubbed a hand over his chest. With slow, steady breaths he began to conjure up his safe place, where he was happy, whole, and home. He hadn't had a lot of happy, whole places to call home growing up, so he usually thought of Lacey and his nephews, but a new series of images pushed into his brain this time, each different, but each featuring the same person.

Taylor. Laughing and plopping a cowboy hat on his head. Sitting in the passenger seat of his car, making fun of his engine. Trembling against him in her doorway. Rocking out onstage, sending him flirty looks. The feel of the soft skin of her throat against his mouth.

That incredible night they'd spent together.

Her. She was beautiful, and funny, and made him feel good. Alive, but without all of the usual shit he felt when he wasn't numb.

He tossed back the rest of his drink, and he felt something broken deep inside him shift, and even though he
didn't
deserve her, he wanted to try to be worthy. The realization that she was the first woman who'd made him want to try to live again caught him right in the chest. Something about her called to him, not as the man he was, but the man he wanted to be.

The man he hoped he could be.

Taylor felt like an idiot, tiptoeing around her own house, sneaking down the stairs and avoiding the creaky spots like a teenager slipping out to meet her boyfriend for a make-out session. She yawned and paused with her hand on the doorknob to the garage, listening for any sounds of life in her house. Only silence greeted her. Colt was probably still sleeping. In a bed. In her house. Probably wearing nothing except those stupidly tight black boxer shorts.

Grinning, she grabbed the old metal Slim Jim her foster brother had given her years ago, along with several massive bags filled with the Ping-Pong balls left over from a music video shoot. They'd been taking up space in her garage for years now, and as she'd lain awake the night before—unable to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, she only saw Colt—she'd remembered them. She'd been sifting through prank ideas, wanting to get him back. Funny how the prank war had started as a way to push him away, but it was only pulling them closer together. And yet despite that, she wanted to keep playing. Wanted to keep inching closer to him, needing more of how good she felt around him.

Hefting the bags over her shoulder, she slipped out the side door of the garage and set them down next to the Charger, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. The last thing she needed was a nosy neighbor calling the police on her for breaking into a car parked in her own driveway. But the street was quiet, the only sound the distant rush of early-morning traffic and the wet whir of a sprinkler from a few houses away. At six thirty in the morning, the sun was stretching up over the horizon, casting a pinkish orange glow over the neighborhood. The cloudless sky above was an airy, misty azure that hinted at the warm, sunny day to come. The palms in her yard rustled softly in the light breeze.

Looking once more over her shoulder, she set the bags down in the driveway, peering up at her house for any signs of life, but it was dark and silent. Careful not to scratch the paint, she slipped the Slim Jim in between the weather strip and the glass of the driver's-side window and carefully slid it down, moving the tool back and forth until she saw the lock start to wiggle a little bit on the other side of the window. Biting her lip and concentrating, she gingerly hooked the door lock mechanism and gently pulled up, unlocking the Charger. She eased the Slim Jim free and slipped it into her back pocket. Tearing open one of the bags of Ping-Pong balls, she dumped its contents across Colt's front seat. She suppressed a giggle as she imagined his reaction when he went to open his car later this morning. Then maybe at least they'd be able to take the Corvette. She was so caught up in her work that she didn't realize Colt was right behind her until he spoke.