Primal Instinct (28 page)

“Hey, Jer.”

“Taylor? Are you all right? You sound funny.”

She sat up and pushed a hand through her hair. “I'm fine. What's up?”

“I have good news. I just had a meeting with Ernie Glick, and he listened to several of the demos you've recorded.” He paused for dramatic effect, but Taylor couldn't muster up the energy to care. She'd handed in a bunch of songs about a man who didn't love her. Fuck, she didn't even want to release the album anymore, but she knew she didn't have a choice. An album full of songs that were nothing but lies. The prettiest illusions.

“Yeah?” she prompted, wanting to get off the phone.

“He
loved
it. Said it was some of your best work. Heartfelt, and real. They want to put a major marketing push behind this.”

“Awesome. Great. Can we talk later? I have a headache.”

“Oh. Um, sure. Yes. Feel better. And congratulations. This is going to be the biggest album of your career.”

“Thanks. Night, Jer.” She hung up and squeezed her phone tight to her chest, the plastic creaking ominously under her grip. Her eyes burned, tears filling her eyes. She wanted to scream, smash things, and get drunk, but with Ian around, she couldn't really do any of those things. But she couldn't stay here, in this deadly silent house, in her cold, empty bed. She felt as though she couldn't breathe.

A drive. That was what she needed. And she knew it was better, easier, to ask for forgiveness than permission. Suddenly energized by the idea, she quickly made her way down the stairs, grabbed her keys, and pulled out of the driveway in seconds flat, hoping that she'd be long gone by the time Ian noticed she'd ditched him.

She rolled down the window, letting the fresh night air pour into the car, and cranked the volume on the radio, feeling some of the tension ease out of her with the rumbling of the Corvette's engine. As Journey's “Wheel in the Sky” blasted through the speakers, she angled the Corvette farther up into the hills, not caring where she was going, just driving.

For a second, she debated turning toward Colt's house, but she knew it wasn't a good idea. In the name of self-preservation, she needed a clean break. She'd been stupid enough to give him one chance despite all the warning signs, and she'd be a damned fool to give him another. She already hurt too much; she couldn't handle any more.

And yet, she missed him. She missed him so much that it overwhelmed her, obliterating everything else. Her ability to think, to breathe, to exist. Gone. Because he was gone. Because they were over.

Because he hadn't fought for her. Hadn't fought for
them
. She'd trusted him, been vulnerable with him, given him her heart, bruised and battered though it was, and he'd let her walk away as though it were nothing.

And maybe to him, it
was
nothing.

Maybe she wouldn't know the truth if she didn't at least hear him out.

She wove her way along Mulholland for several miles, letting her brain work while the hum of the engine, the cool night air, and the music calmed her. With her hands wrapped around the Corvette's wheel, she felt more like herself than she had in days.

She turned right onto Franklin Canyon Drive, heading down toward the reservoir. A pair of headlights flashed in her rearview mirror and she frowned, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. Before she could react, the car slammed into her from behind.

The Corvette careened off the road, and she yanked the wheel, trying to regain control. The car slammed into her a second time, and this time there was nothing she could do but brace herself as the Corvette came to a crashing halt against a pine tree.

Panic flooded her, and for the first time since she'd left the house, it hit her just how alone and vulnerable she was, driving at night, not telling anyone where she'd gone. She pressed a hand to her forehead, a dull throb beating through her skull, and her fingers came away wet with blood.

The driver's-side door flew open, and she didn't even have time to react before her father's fist connected with her face, sending her sprawling back against the seat as pain exploded across her cheekbone.

“Today's the day I get my money, bitch,” he snarled and yanked her out of the car by her hair. She scratched her nails down his face, but he didn't let her go and slammed her face into the body of the Corvette. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as black dots pulsed in front of her eyes. Frank's arms tightened around her from behind, squeezing all of the air out of her lungs. She kicked and struggled helplessly, her mind reeling with fear.

“Get the stuff!” he called over his shoulder. She struggled, knocking her head against his and earning a punch in the stomach that made it impossible to breathe for a second. Pain erupted through her torso, pulsing in time with the throbbing in her skull.

“Here! Take it!” she heard another man's voice shout and suddenly her mouth and nose were covered with a sweet-smelling rag.

She fought, holding her breath for as long as she could, but eventually her world went dark.

C
olt's phone rang, and he snatched it up from where it sat on his kitchen counter. He'd texted Taylor at least a dozen times after his nephew's birthday party. He needed to talk to her. Needed to make her understand that although he'd failed to protect her when he'd promised to keep her safe, instead of punishing both of them for his failure, he wanted the chance to make it up to her. He wasn't sure he deserved a second chance, but goddammit, he
wanted
one.

Maybe wanting to be with Taylor didn't make him a selfish asshole. Maybe he was good enough. And if he wasn't, he wanted to keep trying to be.

God, he'd fucked up so huge letting her walk away. Biggest mistake of his life, hands down, and he was damn well going to fix it. He loved her. He didn't have a choice.

He glanced at the display on his phone, tempering his disappointment when he saw Clay's name flash on the screen.

“Hey, man,” he answered, leaning against the counter.

“Hey, listen. I just heard from a pal at the LAPD that your buddy Baker got sprung earlier today.”

Colt stood up, his spine snapping straight with tension. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“He got sprung on bail. And you're not gonna fucking believe who paid it.”

“Who?” asked Colt, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention.

“Frank Ross. Taylor's stalker got sprung courtesy of the Grim Weavers. Something's going down. Wait, what?” There was a muffled murmuring from the other end of the line. “Hang on.”

Colt's heart slammed violently into his ribs, pounding a mile a minute as he waited for Clay to come back on the line.

“Colt…Taylor drives a red 1970 Corvette Stingray, right?”

“Yeah. Why?” he asked, the words sticking in his mouth like sawdust.

“I just found out that someone called in a 1970 Corvette Stingray, red. Crashed into a tree on the side of a road just outside of the Franklin Canyon Reservoir. No sign of the driver.”

“You get a plate?” he managed to choke out.

“Yeah.”

Colt stopped breathing as Clay read the plate back to him, a series of numbers and letters that told him the only thing that mattered: Baker and Ross had gotten their hands on Taylor, and he needed to find her.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up on Clay and called Taylor, fingers tapping restlessly on the counter as it rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, her voice mail came on, and he hung up without leaving a message.

Panic surging through him, he made a second phone call, this time to Roman.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Baker's out on bail. He's part of the Weavers. Frank paid his bail. Taylor's car was found, crashed just outside of Franklin Canyon Reservoir. We have to find her.”

“I'll head out to the canyon, see if I can pick up anything.”

“Keep me posted.”

Colt hung up and called 911, notifying the police that Taylor was missing and possibly abducted. As soon as he'd hung up with the operator, he dialed Owens.

“Owens.”

“It's Priestley. Taylor's missing, and Baker's been sprung from jail. He has a connection to her dad and the Grim Weavers. Not sure who was supposed to be with Taylor tonight, but her car just turned up, crashed on the side of the road near the Franklin Canyon Reservoir. She's not answering her phone, and I'm in a full-on fucking panic here.”

“Shit.” Owens blew out a breath. “Mac's at her place right now. I'll call him. But…” he paused before continuing “…if Baker's got her, where do you think he'd take her?”

“There are a few options. His apartment, or maybe her dad's place.” He grabbed the file Clay had put together on Frank and Ronnie and paged through it.

“Okay. Anywhere else? What does your gut tell you?”

Colt flipped another page in Baker's background report and froze. His vision narrowed as he stared at the name and address on the page.

“The butcher shop where Baker works.” Colt answered without hesitating. “He doesn't know I have this background report on him. His place and Taylor's dad's place are too obvious. But this? It works. It's clicking for me.”

“I'll send guys to check out Baker's place and Taylor's dad's, and Ian and I will meet you at the butcher shop. Text me the address.”

People were wrong about hell. It wasn't hot. It was cold.

So, so cold.

Taylor's head lolled against her chest as she struggled to open her eyes. Her eyelids felt thick and heavy, and her hands and feet were numb. She managed to pry her eyes open, and her vision swam as she pulled her head upright. She blinked slowly several times, and once her vision righted itself, gave her head a slow shake, trying to dispel the tapping sound rattling through her skull. A few more blinks, and then she realized the tapping was the sound of her teeth chattering.

She moved to wrap her arms around herself, but her wrists only jerked helplessly behind her. With a wave of nausea, what had happened came rushing back. The crash. Her dad. The sickly sweet smell. And then nothing, like a scene missing from a filmstrip.

She glanced around at the concrete walls, the harsh fluorescent lights searing her sensitive eyes. She jerked again, panic mounting when her eyes landed on the rows of animal carcasses hanging from hooks, some pink, some bloodred, some with bones sticking out at odd angles. They hung together, almost touching, a macabre row of death preserved.

She took several fast, ragged breaths, and a cold, iron-like smell caused her to gag and twisted her stomach into a knot. She tried to push up from the freezing metal chair, but found she couldn't move her legs at all. More and more alert with each heartbeat, she looked down and found her knees and ankles duct-taped together, and then again to the chair.

She licked her lips, took a breath, and screamed for help as loud as she could.

She tried to kick against the bindings, and the metal chair scraped roughly against the concrete floor. She screamed again, and a door at the far end of the meat locker opened, cutting a swath of light through the room and across the lifeless pigs hanging from hooks, their ribs exposed like grotesque xylophones.

She stilled, shock and fear pinning her in place as Baker entered, a meat cleaver in one hand. She tried to blink, to look away, but found she couldn't tear her eyes from the glinting metal.

“I thought—” she began weakly, but she didn't have the fortitude to keep speaking. Her fear drained everything from her, and the room spun for a second.

“—that I was in jail? I was. But your old man bailed me out. Us Grim Weavers, we stick together.”

“Give me a second with my daughter,” came a familiar male voice from behind Baker, and her father stepped in beside him, patting him on the shoulder. Her breath hitched in her chest, and she couldn't get enough air. She wanted to close her eyes, to wrap her arms around herself, to run, but she couldn't. Her muscles tensed against her bindings.

Baker nodded and stepped out, leaving the door ajar. A stream of warm air flowed through the crack, but it wasn't enough to calm the violent shivers wracking her body.

“Here's how this is going to work, sweetheart. You're going to pay your own ransom.” He crouched in front of her, his voice lowered to a whisper. “See, Ronnie's been a member for a long time now, and I know about his obsession with you. I knew if there was anyone who could find you, it'd be him. And sure enough, he led me straight to you. And now, he and I, we both get what we want. I get my money, and he gets you. Why anyone would want a whore like you is beyond me, but to each his own, right?”

She tried to straighten in the chair, anger warming her bones. “How
the fuck
do you plan on getting away with this?”

“You pay me, and I pay my debts. Then I hand you over to Ronald. You don't pay me, I kill you. Pretty simple. Even you should be able to follow that.” His fingers traced around her throat and over the marks that had almost faded. “What he does with you once I've got my money…Fuck, I don't really care.”

Her mind reeled as she processed the information. Her dad was working with Baker. Baker was part of the Grim Weavers. “I hope you fucking rot in hell, you piece of shit,” she stammered out through clattering teeth.

His eyebrows popped up. “So where's your pretty boy? He get bored with easy, tired pussy and go off to find something better?” He cackled to himself, rubbing a hand over his stomach.

Pain that had nothing to do with the cold cracked through her chest at the thought of Colt. At the thought of what she'd lost. The truth in her dad's words—that Colt had left to find something better—burst through her, pressing everything except pain and loneliness out of her chest until she felt like nothing but an empty shell.

“I'm not giving you a goddamn
cent
, asshole.”

“You'd rather die than help your old man out? You really are the dumbest bitch I've ever met. I'm embarrassed that you're mine.”

“Fuck you.” She spat the words out as forcefully as she could with her numb lips.

He slapped her, a hard backhand across the face that had her vision fading in and out. He laughed, and then hit her again, and she sunk back into darkness.

Colt cut the lights on the Charger as he pulled into the otherwise empty parking lot of Bobby's Meats in Reseda. He parked in the far corner of the lot, and a pair of headlights flashed at him. Grabbing his gun, Colt raised a hand and met Sean and Ian in the middle of the parking lot.

“You bring your picking tools? Front door's locked,” said Ian, tipping his head in the direction of the dark building.

Colt nodded and pulled his lock-picking set from his back pocket.

Moving as fast as he could, he set to work on the front door, working as quietly as possible, not wanting to tip off Baker and Taylor's stupid asshole father that they had company. Slipping in the long, narrow tension wrench and then hooking the L-shaped wrench in after it, he began to turn them, listening for the soft click indicating the release of the pin tumblers. Sean stood a few feet away, giving him space to work while surveying the parking lot, his Glock drawn and ready.

Ian did a quick perimeter check of the building and came jogging back a minute later. “Two bikes parked round back.” He met Colt's eyes in the darkness, and Colt could practically smell the guilt coming off of him. “I'm sorry, mate. This happened on my watch.”

A couple of years ago, Colt would've been tearing Ian a new asshole over his mistake. But now, after everything he'd been through with Sean, and with Taylor, he knew how easily a mistake like this could happen. He also knew how guilt over a mistake could eat at a person, and he didn't want that for Ian, who had enough of his own shit to deal with already. “This isn't on you. The only people to blame are the two assholes inside.”

Sweat pricked at Colt's hairline as he returned his attention to the lock, intent on opening the door and getting to Taylor. After a few minutes, the deadbolt slid back with a metallic scrape.

Colt, Ian, and Sean all nodded at each other, and Colt pulled his SIG from his waistband. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he slowly pulled the door open just wide enough to slip his arm through. Reaching up, he closed his hand around the bell to stop the clapper from chiming. He stepped inside, holding the door for Sean. Ian remained outside, watching the parking lot for any company.

The front of the butcher shop was completely dark, save for the dim light filtering in from the parking lot. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of the refrigerated display case. Silently, he motioned to Sean to move forward. Moving through the space, they checked the front of the store, the small office, and a bathroom, but all were empty and dark.

Colt's blood froze in his veins.

Oh, fucking hell. The meat locker.

Taylor grimaced against the sharp pains shooting up her legs, cramping from having been taped to the chair for…how long now? After she'd woken up the second time, she'd been alone, her muscles stiff and sore from shivering, her bottom lip cracked and swollen. She was so cold that she just wanted to sleep, but she knew she had to stay awake. Unable to pinch herself, she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to snap some alertness into her brain with a fresh shot of pain.

It worked for a few seconds, but before she could stop them, her eyelids were slipping back down like heavy curtains. With another bite to the inside of her cheek, she snapped her head back up and wanted to cry, because it couldn't be a good sign that she was hallucinating.

That was the only explanation for the sight of Colt easing his broad shoulders cautiously through the door, his gun cradled in his hands. His eyes locked on her, and he lowered his gun.

“She's here. Call nine-one-one,” he said softly to someone behind him before holstering his gun and closing the distance between them with wide strides. Pulling out a pocket knife, he started working on her restraints, slicing through them with quick, sure movements. And then Sean was there too, helping to free her.

She couldn't talk. Her brain couldn't move fast enough to actually latch on to any of the feelings floating through her and turn them into words. Before she could stop them, the tears started coursing down her face, her silent sobs making her shake even harder.

Colt paused in freeing her, just for a second, rubbing a tear away with his thumb. “Shhh, gorgeous, it's okay. You're okay. Shhh.” The last of her binds finally broke free, and it felt as though her brain were finally working, just a little. Enough that she could shout out a warning: “Behind you!”

Her voice came out like a strangled croak, but it was enough. Colt whipped around just in time to see Baker approaching with a gun leveled right at Sean's head. Lighting fast, Colt dove forward, pulling Sean to the ground milliseconds before Baker squeezed the trigger. A seam of blood beaded and welled on Colt's arm where the bullet had grazed him before disappearing into one of the pig carcasses behind him.