Primal Instinct (8 page)

Excitement pinged through her. Onstage, a guitar in her hands, rocking out with thousands of fans—that was where she felt most alive.

Colt strode through the Sanctuary's door, pulling his sunglasses off his face as he walked. He nodded at the others as he passed, and everyone dispersed, the impromptu meeting adjourned. He came to a stop directly beside the piano, his phone in his hand. He showed her the screen, and her stomach dropped when she saw the Prince Sparklepants profile she'd created for him.

“You do this?”

She held her breath, waiting for his anger. Instead, after a brief second, humor lit up his face, his green eyes crinkling in that way that made her stomach flip and bounce.

“Because it's pretty freaking hilarious.”

“How…how did you find it?” she asked, unsure how to read him.

“Gorgeous, I'm ex-military and a security expert. You can bet that if I'm getting weird-ass text messages, I'm going to figure out where they're coming from.”

“Uh, well, I—”

“As far as pranks go, this is pretty good. Really. Shows creativity.” He leaned his forearms on the piano, smiling down at her. Challenging her. “Just be warned. You're throwing the glove down on a prank war with someone who was in the Army for twelve years.”

She tried and failed to suppress her wide grin. A thrill zapped through her, hot and electric.

Game fucking on.

Frank stepped into the private room at Brillare, one of the most expensive restaurants in Los Angeles, feeling completely out of place in his scuffed boots, black jeans, leather vest, and gray T-shirt. A narrow stream of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, and despite the fact that he was flanked on either side by members of the Grim Weavers, he was extremely aware of just how exposed he was, walking into Golden Brotherhood territory. The jazz piped through the restaurant's speakers grated on him and he ground his teeth together, determined not to show any fear.

As he approached, the man who'd summoned him didn't stand from his spot in the center of a cushy, red-leather covered booth. With his fingers wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid, his designer suit impeccably tailored and spotless, he emanated power and control. Two things Frank was used to commanding himself, and the fact that he could feel them slipping through his fingers scared the fuck out of him.

Without a word, Jonathan Fairfax motioned for Frank to sit on one of the wooden chairs facing the booth. Frank sat, and his men, Roadrunner and Drifter, stood behind him. He'd specifically chosen them because he knew they'd have his back. He and Drifter went back almost thirty years, and while Roadrunner was a newer addition to the crew, he was devoted to Frank and the Weavers. They hadn't been relieved of their weapons as they'd entered, and Fairfax had to know they were packing. That he wasn't intimidated at all set Frank's teeth on edge. Everywhere the Grim Weavers went, people scrambled to either accommodate them or get the fuck out of their way. But this pretending not to care shit? Fuck, but it was unnerving. Frank's heart hammered in his ears as he swallowed thickly, trying and failing to get a read on how to play the situation.

“You know, I don't normally concern myself with people like you,” said Fairfax, tracing his pinky around the rim of his glass and not making eye contact. Fairfax was the head of the Golden Brotherhood and not someone to be fucked with. He was Hollywood's Oscar-winning golden boy, but most people, including his beautiful daughter, Alexa, had no idea who the actor
really
was.

Fairfax rubbed a hand over his thinning dark brown hair and finally looked up, his eyes cold and hard. “But when one of my lieutenants tells me there's a six-figure shortfall on the books, I get interested pretty damn fast.”

Frank didn't say anything, just rubbed his sweaty palms over his thighs.

Fairfax looked down, consulting a single slip of paper in front of him. “You—the Grim Weavers—were given twenty kilos of coke to move for us. Each of those kilos has a street value of $30,000. Now—and correct me if I'm wrong,” he said in a tone that didn't seem open to correction at all, “you claim to have dealt twelve kilos. Even after your twenty-five percent cut, and again, stop me if I'm wrong, I should see $270,000.” Fairfax leaned forward slightly. “Is my math right?”

He held Frank's eyes, waiting for a response. Frank nodded gruffly.

Fairfaix nodded, rubbing his chin. “You see, that's what I thought. But I only see $172,000 in the books, meaning you're short almost $100,000.” Fairfax cocked his head, studying Frank. “Where the fuck is the money, Ross? You wouldn't be stupid enough to steal from us, would you? To sell coke on the side that doesn't belong to you?”

Frank mustered every ounce of bravado he could. “You be careful who you call stupid. We're on your turf, so as a sign of respect, I'll let that slide, but you'd better remember who the fuck you're talking to.”

Fairfax nodded at someone behind him, and the cold press of metal against Frank's temple sent his stomach churning. He strained his eyes as he glanced to the side as far as he could without moving his head, catching a glimpse of suited men with guns trained on his men, muzzles pressed against the backs of their skulls.

Fairfax sipped his drink and studied the tumbler for a moment, his calm, slow movements making Frank want to flip a fucking table.

“Listen. I don't want your brains decorating my wall. I've already got plenty of artwork.” Fairfax waved his hand, as though he were making casual conversation and not threatening murder. “I know, I know, it's only $100,000. Not a lot of money in the grand scheme of things.” He
tsk
ed and let out a frustrated sigh. “But it's the principle of the thing, Frank. If I let you steal from the Brotherhood and walk away, what kind of message am I sending to everyone else?” He shook his head sadly. “So here's what's going to happen.” The gun held at Frank's temple pressed more firmly against him. “I will get my money, Frank. It's not a matter of if. It's only a matter of how. So you figure it the fuck out.” He looked at the man behind him. “Break his toes.”

R
onnie gripped the knife firmly in one hand, scraping it rapidly back and forth over the sharpening steel, and the metallic sound hummed through him. Setting it aside, he turned to the carcass hanging in front of him, swaying ever so slightly in the chilled air of the walk-in freezer. Without hesitating, he slipped his knife beneath the fat and, with a series of sure, quick strokes, began pulling the muscle away from the bone. He pulled the pork loin free and set it on the butcher block counter. Even though the meat was cold against his hands, he chose not to wear gloves. He liked the feel of flesh under his fingers, raw and exposed.

Picking up a rag, he wiped at the pinkish water sitting on top of the counter, and as he cleaned, he wondered what Taylor's flesh would feel like beneath his fingers. Would it be firm and supple, or softer, more yielding? Which part of her would feel the best? Would he like her best warm or cold?

Would she scream as he peeled her skin back? His dick stiffened, and he fought back a groan. The idea of being inside her and seeing inside her at the same time was almost too much. He needed to get control of himself so that when the time came, he wouldn't waste his time with her.

Maybe, when she was big and round with his child, she'd let him pull the baby from her. Let him slice into her womb to touch their child, to touch her. A baby they'd made, covered in Taylor's blood.

The idea brought tears to his eyes.

Ronnie's phone buzzed, and after washing his hands, he retrieved it from his back pocket.

A surge of excitement charged through him, and he glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was coming into the back room. He pushed open the rear exit door and let the man in.

“You got my money?”

Ronnie pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand, taking the box of black-market spy equipment in return. With a curt nod, the man turned on his heel and left, leaving Ronnie to explore his treasures.

Taylor ran her brush through her hair, letting the strands trail over her shoulders. Pursing her lips, she leaned forward and scrutinized herself in the bathroom mirror. With her pinky, she wiped at a tiny smudge of mascara under one eye.

“Your ride's here,” called Roman from out in the hallway before heading down the stairs. Over the past couple of days, he and Colt had made themselves at home, encroaching on her space and tracking her every move. She'd avoided Colt as much as possible since the night of the imaginary intruder. He'd had the past day off, leaving her under Roman's supervision.

And goddammit, she liked Roman. She didn't want to like Roman. She didn't want to…whatever the hell it was she felt about Colt. And she especially didn't need or want them in her space.

Taylor stomped to her front hallway, hating the excitement that shot through her when she drank in the sight of Colt standing there.

“You ready to head out?” His hands were tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, and before she could stop herself, her eyes skated down his body and back up again, taking in the perfectly mussed light brown hair, dark gray T-shirt, jeans, and boots that all seemed to fit him perfectly, hinting at what she knew was a killer body under that cotton.

“Yeah. We'll take my car, though,” she said, wanting to claim back even just a tiny slice of her freedom.

“No. We're taking mine.”

“You saying you don't want to go for a ride in my 'Vette?” She closed her eyes for a second, wondering how the hell she'd gone from being pissed at the situation to flirting with him.
Again.

He crossed his arms and studied her with a half smile that crinkled his eyes and sent her heart scrambling into her stomach. “No, I do. Just not today. I'm driving, and we're taking my car. If you behave, maybe I'll even let you drive it.”

She frowned, anything good she'd been feeling evaporating. “I'm not some ill-behaved toddler that you can bribe with treats, you know.”

His expression softened, and he held her gaze for a second before nodding slowly. “You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

She ignored his apology and kept talking, unsure how that easy yet sincere apology made her feel. It seemed almost unfair the way he could toss something like that at her and expect her to know what to do with it. “Besides,” she continued, “my Layla's got more style, torque, and horsepower than that thing.” She leaned around him and eyed the Charger sitting in her driveway, itching to wrap her fingers around the steering wheel despite the way she was teasing him.

He scoffed. “You named your car? Really?” Arching an eyebrow, he smirked. “And don't think I haven't noticed you stare at my Charger the way a fat kid stares at cake.”

She raised an eyebrow, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how right he was. “It's got a certain rough charm.” She shrugged and frowned. “But it's no 'Vette.”

“Oh yeah? What's so freaking great about that?” He stabbed a finger in Layla's direction.

She began counting off on her fingers. “Number one: Corvettes are the most popular all-American high-performance car of all time, outselling all others since their introduction in 1963. Number two: Four thirty-five horsepower. You've got…what?” She eyed the Charger again. “Three fifty?
Maybe
four twenty? And that's if you've got a HEMI in there, which I don't think you do. Number three: Even with a smaller engine, the Corvettes have better performance than pretty much anything comparable. Number four: It's a fucking tank. Good luck trying to dent it. Number five: It—”

“I think I love you.” Colt studied her with an amused smirk, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Suppressing the tiny thrill that shot through her, she rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Colt.” He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as she turned back into the house to grab her purse and keys.

She was pleasantly surprised when, as she walked toward his car, he stepped in front of her, opening the passenger door for her. Trying to ignore the electrical tingle that worked its way across her skin at the nearness of his wide, muscled body, she slipped into the passenger seat. He walked around the front of the car to the other side and dropped into the driver's seat with an easy, masculine grace. The engine roared to life, and she had to suppress a smile. It was no Stingray, but it was a pretty awesome car all the same. Pristine black leather seats, fully restored dash, gleaming chrome and faux-wood finishes. Upgraded stereo system that she couldn't help but notice was tuned to her favorite classic rock station. The Charger was sexy and rough and masculine. Kinda like its owner. And that was exactly the way she shouldn't be thinking.

“Definitely no HEMI in this,” she said, propping her elbow on the window's ledge.

“It's not all about the size of the engine, you know.” His eyebrow arched up over the aviator sunglasses he'd just slipped on, and she watched his large hands as he wrapped one around the steering wheel, the other over the gear shift. Heat prickled over her skin as she remembered how good those hands had felt on her.

“Spoken like someone with a small engine.”

“Oh, honey. We both know there's
nothing
wrong with the size of my engine.” He glanced over at her, that smug, cocky grin tilting his lips up in a way that made her insides feel like melted butter, all hot and sweet and heart stopping. Her stomach did a flip and she cleared her throat, shifting in her seat.

Switching gears and the subject at the same time, he glanced over his shoulder as he pulled out onto her street. “So, listen. I'm having some guys over for poker tonight, so I'm trading off with Roman. I know it's supposed to be my night on, but I didn't see anything in your schedule. That okay with you?”

“Whatever. I don't care.” But she tucked away that little piece of information, wondering if she could do something with it.

“Okay. But if anything comes up, if you need anything, I'm around.”

As he shifted into gear and forward into traffic, a strange warmth settled over her chest. She liked that he was in her corner, that he was…around. And goddammit, she wasn't supposed to like it. She was supposed to be angry. Supposed to be keeping her distance. And she was struggling and failing on both counts.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Taylor not daring to open her mouth for fear of what horrifyingly honest thing might fall out.

Colt turned into the Sanctuary's parking lot and pulled into a spot near the entrance. Once again surprising her, he came around and opened her door for her, and once again, she tried to ignore the sparks shooting through her at being so close to him. She could feel the warmth coming off his skin, smell the faint, woodsy-fresh scent of his aftershave. Before she lost control of every single brain cell, he moved to the back of the car, opening the trunk and lifting out a small cooler. She shot him a questioning glance and he shrugged.

“I get hungry.”

Something about the cocky pull of his lips sent a thrill up her spine. He brushed by her as she closed her door and lowered his head, just slightly. He was only a couple of inches taller than her and didn't have far to go to bring his mouth a whisper away from her ear. “I've got a big appetite. As I'm sure you remember.”

He was halfway to the front door before she was able to move. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, and heat pooled between her legs as memories of that night flashed through her mind for what had to be the thousandth time.

Thankfully, Walker's SUV pulling up was enough to jolt her out of her haze, and she put her legs in motion. In a plaid shirt and jeans, with his short, blond hair catching the morning sun and a couple days' worth of stubble clinging to his square jaw and cleft chin, he looked every inch the country hunk his legions of female fans worshiped. After a quick greeting, she sat down with Walker in the rehearsal space, bottles of water at the ready, lyrics and chords printed out and propped on stands. She greeted Zephira and Jeremy, along with a few other musicians and people from Walker's entourage. The space hummed with activity, and she took a deep, cleansing breath, settling into herself.

Shouldering her favorite Gibson Explorer, she reached for the guitar pick case on the nearby table. She frowned when she found it empty.

“Sorry, just need to find a pick. Hang on.”

“Sure thing, darlin'.” Walker sent her an easy smile and picked up a guitar, strumming softly.

She rummaged around, searching for a pick as Walker filled her in on the details of their upcoming performance at the awards show. She suppressed a frustrated growl as she continued her search. Walker strummed idly on his guitar as she hunted from table to table, drawer to drawer, even digging into the couch cushions. Nothing. She came up empty-handed and thrust a hand into her hair, several people watching her with arched eyebrows and puzzled frowns.

“Taylor, I've got a spare pick if you need one,” called Walker, sitting back on a stool.

“What the hell? Where did they all go?”

Her eyes landed on Colt as he walked back into the main area from the kitchenette, focused intently on his phone and trying very hard to look innocent. Trying and not quite succeeding.

“By the way,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “I made you a snack. It's in the fridge.”

Exhaling a hard, sharp, breath, she strode to the kitchenette off to one side of the studio and flung the refrigerator door open. She felt something give as she tugged, and a springy pop sounded just before what had to be a pound of multicolored glitter exploded in her face. She stood completely still in front of the fridge, eyes screwed shut against the tiny, sparkly pieces of plastic as laughter erupted around her.

She spit out a small mouthful of glitter. “Pah. Fuck!” She wiped at her eyes and pried first one, then the other open cautiously. Glancing down, she groaned as she surveyed the damage. Her black leather pants and white tank top were covered in glitter. With a disgusted
tsk
, she wiped at her clothes, but that only seemed to spread the glitter around.

“Nice sparkle pants,” said Colt, an evil grin on his face. He tipped his chin toward the fridge. “You never found your snack.”

Her head snapped back around and her muscles tensed as she braced for another onslaught of craft supplies. In amongst the beer, water bottles, take-out containers, and a lone bottle of half-used ranch dressing sat a bright red Jell-O mold, and in it was every single guitar pick from the studio. They all sat suspended in red goo, wiggling at her in some kind of processed food taunt.

“Colt!” She ground out his name through clenched teeth.

He laughed, cocky and proud of himself, sending irritation and lust sparking through her system. “Hey, I warned you.”

For some reason, she hadn't thought he'd actually prank her. That maybe he talked a big game but was full of shit and was trying to intimidate her into backing down. That maybe he wouldn't get her back for the Prince Sparklepants thing.

“It's real sweet that you cooked for me,” she said, her voice dripping in sarcasm.

He stepped closer, and once again every nerve ending in her body came to life. “You looked hungry.” His green eyes darkened to a deep emerald, just for a second, as he studied her, and his low, rough voice sent heat rippling up her spine and straight to her core.

“Is that how I look to you? Hungry?” She stepped closer, so close she could smell the fresh, clean-laundry scent of his T-shirt. She was tempted to rub herself all over him. To transfer some of the glitter. Not because he looked like some kind of sex god, all muscled and cocky and laughing. Nope. Solely for glitter transfer purposes.

“We still talking about food?” His voice dropped even further, and she fought the urge to squirm against the throb starting between her legs. He leaned toward her and reached for the Jell-O mold, taking it from its spot in the center of the fridge. He was so close that his chest brushed against hers, and her nipples tightened.