Primal Instinct (4 page)

Taylor eased her Corvette up to the gated entry in front of her, rolled down her window and pressed a finger to the large white button on the intercom. She tipped her head back against the headrest and drummed her fingers on the door of the car, her hand hanging out the window. Frowning, she pressed the buzzer again. Sierra should be home. They'd been best friends for over a decade, and Taylor knew Sierra's day-to-day routine by heart.

Just as she was about to roll up the window and head home, the intercom crackled to life. “Yeah?” Sierra Blake's voice came through the speaker, high and slightly breathless.

Taylor leaned out the window. “Hey. It's me. Let me into your gated kingdom.”

“Hey. Sure.” The intercom went quiet and the sturdy gate began rolling back, allowing her to navigate up the curving drive lined with concrete planters filled with colorful hollyhock and lilac plants. The brand new Mediterranean-style house rose up in front of her, its yellow stucco walls radiating warmth. She parked her car and walked up to the heavy oak door, knocking twice with the wrought-iron ring in the center of it.

The door opened and there stood Sierra, tiny and beautiful, her hair dripping wet. A tag stuck up from the neck of her T-shirt, emphasizing the fact that it was on backward. Without a word, Sierra spun on her heel, silently inviting Taylor to follow her into the house. The heels of Taylor's boots clicked on the dark hardwood floors and echoed in the spacious two-story entryway. They passed the living room and headed for the kitchen, their usual hangout spot. A framed poster for Sierra's movie
Bodies
hung in the hallway, but the rest of the walls were bare. Cardboard boxes, some open, some still sealed, lined the hallway. After losing her home in a fire last year, Sierra and her boyfriend, Sean, had rebuilt on the same land, and they had just moved into the newly constructed house last week.

“Sorry. I was in the shower. Were you out there long?” Sierra asked.

“Nah. Sorry to barge in, but it's been a weird couple of days, and I…just…needed to talk to you.” Taylor slipped out of her jacket and slid onto a padded black stool, folding her legs under the lip of the counter and leaning her elbows on the island in the center of the kitchen, the off-white granite cool against her skin.

Sierra pulled an elastic band from her wrist and twisted her long, golden-brown hair into a bun on top of her head. It was messy, lopsided and off center, which she somehow managed to make look adorable.

Sitting with Sierra in her kitchen that still smelled vaguely of paint and sawdust, warm sunlight bathing the white walls, the rest of the house quiet and peaceful, Taylor felt whole. Safe. Happy. Truth be told, her friendship with Sierra was probably the most important relationship in her life. Sierra was family of the best kind: The kind she'd chosen for herself. The kind who loved her. Who never told her she was useless, or unwanted, or a mistake.

Sierra put a bottle of water down on the island in front of Taylor and hopped up on the stool across from her. “Weird couple of days, huh? Weird how?”

Taylor shrugged, suddenly not wanting to talk about her problems. She didn't want to rehash the conversation with Jeremy, and the anger and embarrassment that had come with it. Normally, she told Sierra everything, but this…she wanted to keep it to herself.

Sean Owens strode into the kitchen, water dripping from his thick, dark brown hair and onto his T-shirt. “Hey, Taylor.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze on his way to the fridge, scrubbing his free hand over his closely cropped beard.

“Hi, Sean. Thought you'd be at work.”

The big bodyguard shrugged, his impressive muscles bunching visibly through his T-shirt. “Working from home today.” As if the wet hair and Sierra's backward T-shirt weren't enough of an indication, Sean winked at Sierra before heading into the living room, several containers of food in his large hands.

Taylor arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Still christening the new house?” she asked, jumping on the opportunity to tease Sierra despite the ache in her chest.

Sierra bit her lip and flushed slightly.

“Yeah. I should go.” Something small and dark clutched at her ribs whenever she watched Sierra and Sean together, and right now that something was making it hard to breathe. She didn't begrudge Sierra her happiness, not at all. But it hurt because it was a reminder of everything she could never have. Everything she'd realized she wanted, only to find out she wasn't worthy of it.

“No. Taylor, don't do that.” Sierra laid a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. “Tell me why you came over.”

Taylor shrugged. “Same shit, different day.” She twisted the top off the water bottle and took a long sip. “I'm fine. Just in a weird mood, I guess.”

Sierra paused, biting her lip and lowering her voice. “You haven't been fine since Zack.”

Taylor wrapped her fingers around her bottle of water, needing something to hold on to. Zack. The relationship that had changed everything. That had sent her into her current tailspin. That had forced her to tear down and then rebuild the walls around her heart, stronger than ever. She just shrugged, not really sure what to say. It seemed unfair to constantly dump her problems on Sierra. And yet Taylor knew that part of the reason she was holding back was because she wasn't sure what Sierra could even say. Sierra, who had her life together, with a great career, an amazing boyfriend, and a loving family.

Without a word, Sierra hopped down from her stool and wrapped her arms around Taylor. “I'm sorry you're so unhappy, babe. I'm sorry about Zack. I'm sorry you're lonely. I'm sorry for all the shit you've had to deal with.”

To her horror, Taylor felt tears sting the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to dispel them. God, she was lonely, but there was nothing she could do about it because she'd learned the hard way that it was much better to be on her own. Safer, and easier, and far less damaging. Because not being alone meant having to trust someone else—trust that they wouldn't hurt her, or leave her, or use her, or lie to her, or any combination of the above.

Trust, she'd learned, only opened the door to misery and heartbreak and betrayal. Trust was for suckers.

She'd let herself trust and fall too many times in the past. She didn't have the strength to keep doing it. To keep leaping off bridges only to find that the river below was frozen over, and when she fell, she ended up cold, broken, and alone.

Every. Damn. Time.

“I should go. I'm crashing your time with Sean.”

“No, stay. I don't want you to leave like this. Hang out, just for a bit?”

“You don't have to leave on my account,” said Sean, returning to the kitchen with the now-empty food containers. At six-five and well over two hundred pounds of impressive muscle, it was no surprise that he seemed to eat constantly. “I was gonna go out for a while, anyway. Hit the gym, check in at the office. But even if I weren't leaving, you know you're always welcome here, Taylor.” He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek as he left the kitchen, and something warmed inside her. She really did love Sean. He was like this sweet, protective, older brother.

Once, she'd imagined that she could end up with a man like Sean. Strong, and smart, and kind. Gorgeous, and funny, and who made you feel safe and loved, every single day.

Once. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

C
olt raised the shot glass to his lips and threw it back, swallowing the tequila and savoring the warm path it cut through his chest. He leaned back in his chair, the weathered wood and cracked red vinyl under his ass creaking against his weight. Guns N' Roses thumped through the speakers and vibrated against the scarred, wood-paneled walls, which were covered in a motley combination of neon liquor signs, sports memorabilia, and a few old Hollywood pictures in dusty frames. A jukebox glowed in the corner, fluorescent pink and blue, but a layer of grime dimmed its brightness. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, waiting for the tequila to kick in and take the edge off his restlessness.

“Would you relax?” Roman Kekoa leaned his tattooed forearms on the table and angled his body toward Colt.

“What?” Colt eyed the big Hawaiian. And Roman wasn't fat big. No, Roman was more the “kick the shit out of you, make women drool” kind of big.

“You're glaring at that shot glass like it stole your car.” Roman smiled darkly, his white teeth flashing against his dark beard and whiskey-hued skin.

Colt scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry.” But he knew he was still glaring, could feel the tension stretching across his forehead and radiating down into his jaw.

“Fuck, man. I need to get laid tonight, and you keep looking like that, you're going to scare all the pretty ones away.”

He nodded at Roman and chased his shot down with a swallow of beer.

Roman raised his eyebrows. “More tequila?” It was a question, but he was already standing, looking in the direction of the bar.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

As Roman made his way to the bar, Colt glanced around Frisky's—his favorite dive, even if it did share a name with cat food. No celebrities, and barely any tourists. Just good music, cheap drinks, and lots of locals. Cute ones, usually. Like the two brunettes, a blonde and a redhead at the booth in the corner. He caught the redhead's eye and smiled, tilting his chin at her slightly.

“She's hot.” Roman set down a tray with a couple of shots and two more bottles of beer on the table as the redhead nudged the blonde beside her, who looked up and immediately started eyefucking Roman.

Colt picked up a shot glass and downed the tequila, no salt, no lime, closing his eyes briefly against the burn. As usual, turning off his brain was the main goal tonight, and right about now, drinking himself into oblivion felt like a damn good idea, seeing as how sex had completely failed him in that regard last night.

He nodded and leaned back in his chair, his beer bottle dangling from one hand. “Pretty cute.”

Roman tossed his own shot back and set the empty glass down on the table with a loud clack. “Hell, yeah.” He picked up his own beer and tapped it against Colt's. “Cheers, partner.”

Colt smiled and tipped his bottle to his lips. He and Roman, both freelance bodyguards, had been working together for over a year now. While Roman had always been freelance, it was a fairly new world for Colt. He'd had a job as a bodyguard at one of the best security firms in California, and he'd managed to get his ass fired, naturally. He had a tendency to ruin anything good that came into his life—people, jobs, you name it. Getting fired from Virtus Security meant that no one else would touch him, and he'd been forced to strike out on his own. Working in the field, protecting people, implementing security plans—it was the only thing he was good at. But if he were honest, most days he missed working for a firm. He missed the job security, and he missed being part of a team. But he'd fucked it up, and he had to live with that. He'd misread a situation, had made a bad call, and because of Colt's mistake his boss, Sean Owens, had ended up injured. In the months following his firing, he'd tried several times to get his job back, but considering his mistake had almost led to Owens losing an eye, he hadn't been surprised when he wasn't given another chance.

Sometimes, he and Roman worked a job together if it called for two guys, and other times they each worked alone. Occasionally, they'd toss work to each other, depending on schedules and skill sets. Roman preferred the more laid-back gigs, while Colt liked the higher-risk stuff. They complimented each other well, and for the most part the partnership was working out.

He still missed the guys, though. Being part of a team.

Roman licked his lips and leaned forward again, his eyes flicking between the table of pretty women and Colt. “You give any more thought to what Lacey said?”

Colt set his beer bottle back down on the table, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger, and he shook his head. “No. That door's closed for me. If Lacey wants to reconnect with Mom, that's her call, but I'm out. She's upset about it though, so of course, I feel like an asshole.” He clenched his jaw and stared at his beer bottle.

“I'm sorry, man. Rough.”

“Yeah.” Colt's chest tightened as he thought of his sister and what she wanted to do: reconnect with their alcoholic mess of a mother, who'd blamed Colt every time a man left her. He'd simply been trying to protect his mom and his sister from creep after creep, but his mom hadn't wanted his protection. When he was seventeen, she'd kicked Colt out of the house after he'd put the biggest of the creeps in the hospital for trying to sexually assault Lacey, who'd been fifteen at the time. He was lucky he hadn't been charged, but at the time, he hadn't cared. All he cared about was protecting his sister and getting her the hell out of there. So they'd both left. Colt had dropped out of high school and gotten a job at a garage, finishing his diploma by correspondence. He'd waited for Lacey to finish high school, and then he'd enlisted in the United States Army. It had been the perfect solution for him. He could serve his country, protect others, get the fuck out of Los Angeles, and make a little money while doing it. Enough money to ensure Lacey had options.

And it had worked out, for the most part. He'd served his country for twelve years, and he never regretted enlisting. He'd helped Lacey through college, and now she was married with two young sons. The nightmares, the guilt, the knowledge that he'd come back from each deployment to the Sandpit a little more broken, a little more fucked-up, was worth it. For Lacey. For his country. To help and protect others.

Why she'd want to try and reconnect with their mother was beyond him, but he knew he couldn't stop her if she'd set her mind to it. He watched Roman ogle the blonde some more and swallowed against the hard knot in his chest.

“You ever get sick of it?”

“Of what?” asked Roman, taking a sip of his beer and not taking his eyes away from the blonde.

“All the different women. The lack of anything permanent. Don't you ever just want to find…I don't know. That one woman who makes you want to stop looking? Stop fucking around?”

Roman turned his head slowly from the blonde, his eyebrows raised. “Uh…no.” He frowned. “God. One woman? Forever? I don't even want to think about how boring that would be.” Roman shuddered before tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

“I don't know. With the right woman, I don't think it would be boring.” Taylor sure as fuck hadn't been boring.

Roman looked at him, holding perfectly still. “I don't know if you're drunk or not drunk enough. Either way, you're talking crazy. How could you ever be satisfied with one woman? Why would you want to shackle yourself that way?”

“I'm not saying I want to. I'm saying with the right one, maybe it would all make sense.” Meeting Roman's skeptical gaze, he waved a hand, brushing the topic away. “Never mind.” It didn't matter. There was no right woman for him. Not in any kind of long-term sense. He would never do that to someone else. Would never expect a woman—especially one that he loved—to put up with him and his metric ton of baggage. Never ask her to. He just wouldn't. It didn't matter if he
wanted
a future with someone. A family. He couldn't have it. He couldn't have a family
and
protect those he loved, because there was only one way to protect people from himself.

Stay the fuck away.

And to numb the pain of wanting but not having, he used sex, drinking, and occasional bouts of cathartic violence. Yep. Super healthy. What woman wouldn't want that?

Roman ran a hand through his long hair, twisting it into a knot at the base of his skull before letting it fall around his shoulders. “So listen, I might have a job for us.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

“You know I've worked with a few different clients from Pacific Records before, right?”

Colt nodded, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “Yeah.”

“They called me this morning. They need two guys to start right away. Like, tomorrow. You in?”

Fuck, a job was just the distraction he needed to stop thinking about Taylor. “Yeah, I think so. Who's the client?” He raised his beer bottle to his lips.

“Taylor Ross.”

Colt began choking on the mouthful of beer he'd just swallowed, coughing and sputtering as he hastily set the bottle down.

Roman stared at him, one eyebrow raised. “There a problem?”

Colt thumped himself on the chest, still coughing as he tried to pull air into his lungs. “Fuck. Wrong pipe,” he managed to wheeze out. He wiped a hand over his watering eyes and kept coughing until his airway cleared. His throat burned as his lungs filled with air. Meanwhile, his brain, heart, and dick were engaged in a three-way battle over whether or not to take the job.

Swallowing with effort, he stared at Roman, trying to figure out if he somehow knew who'd been in Colt's bed last night and was playing a joke on him. Roman just stared right back, one eyebrow still raised.

If Roman wasn't playing a joke on him, maybe the universe was. He knew, given the way he'd responded to her, that he probably shouldn't see Taylor again. One night with her, and he'd started wanting things—with her, from her—that he had no right to want. Not to mention that she'd bailed before he'd even woken up.

And yet he had a hard time believing she'd been running
from
him, given that she'd stolen his T-shirt. He smiled, letting himself imagine—just for a second—Taylor wearing it, smelling it, sleeping in it. She'd taken it for a reason, and while he knew he should let it go, his mind kept circling back to the T-shirt.

Matter of fact, he wouldn't mind asking for that T-shirt back.

And this wouldn't just be seeing her again. It'd be spending hours and hours with her every single day. It would be protecting her. For a brief second, he contemplated not taking the job and leaving her protection up to someone else.

Yeah. Fuck that. Not gonna happen.

At the idea of protecting Taylor, of keeping her safe from anything and everything, his skin tightened, a possessive, excited energy vibrating through him. Heart and dick won out over brain, and he nodded. “Yeah. Let's take it.”

Roman stared at him for another second before nodding slowly. “Great. It should be a pretty straightforward gig. I already did a preliminary background check, and there were no red flags. The way the guy from the label put it, we just need to make sure she stays out of trouble, and that trouble stays away from her while she works on her album.”

“Sounds good.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, an ache spreading like gnarled roots over his sternum. Whether it was a warning or anticipation, he had no fucking clue. For a brief second, he debated whether or not to tell Roman about his recent history with Taylor, but before he could make up his mind either way, Roman bit out a curse.

Colt followed Roman's gaze, tracking the movements of a pair of tatted-up bikers moving in their direction.

His muscles tensed, and Colt glanced at Roman. “What did you do?”

Before Roman could answer, the bikers were at their table, one of them leaning down, his hands splayed on the wood, his long, curly blond hair falling forward. “You must be Kekoa.”

Roman pushed to his feet, pulling his shoulders back and standing to his full six-four height. Colt stood, too, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Excitement crackled over his skin. If these guys were angling for a fight, they'd come to the right table.

“I am.” Roman met the blond dude's eyes, staring him down from a vantage point several inches above him.

He didn't seem deterred. “You fucked my girlfriend.”

Colt quickly weighed the pros and cons of reaching for his beer, but decided against it, standing stock still next to Roman, who was a fucking idiot who couldn't keep his dick in his pants to save his life, but was a loyal friend. Colt couldn't even count the number of times Roman had had his back. No way would Colt bail on him now.

“Oh, yeah? Who's that?” Roman crossed his arms in front of his chest, a cocky smirk on his lips.

Tension coiled through Colt's muscles and a familiar tingle of anticipation worked its way down his spine.

“Lucy Han.”

Roman frowned and looked up at the ceiling for a second before his eyes widened slightly and he smiled. “Oh, yeah. I remember her. Funny, she never mentioned you.” Roman took a step toward him. “Then again, her mouth was otherwise occupied.”

Colt's eyes darted between Roman and the Vince Neil wannabe, who lunged forward and shoved Roman hard. Roman kept his balance but stepped back into the table, tipping over a beer bottle and sending it crashing to the floor. Every head in the place swiveled in their direction.

Before he could right himself, the blond biker was already taking a swing at Roman. Colt locked eyes with the guy standing in front of him, tall and bald and built like Mr. Clean, and the second he made a move to jump on Roman—who was already making the jealous boyfriend sorry for picking a fight—Colt took a swing with his right fist, connecting with the guy's jaw, and quickly followed it up with a second punch, his knuckles cracking against cheekbone. He shoved him into his buddy, sending them both off balance and giving Roman a chance to get his knee into the blond guy's stomach. Colt's blood pumped hot and fast through his veins, and he felt alive. Alive and worth something.