Primal Instinct (9 page)

“That's just a small sample of what's to come if you want to continue this little prank war. Have fun digging those out, Prin
cess
Sparklepants. Oh, and I've been told that glitter sticks to everything, so it might take a few days to come off.” He shrugged and placed the plate containing the gelatinous red glob in her hands, dusting his hands off as he walked away. She watched him, transfixed by the way his Levi's hugged his perfect, muscular ass. He stretched and his T-shirt rode up, exposing a flash of metal tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Walker, who was standing on the other side of the kitchenette, an amused smirk on his face as he studied her. God, she must look ridiculous, covered in glitter and holding a Jell-O mold filled with guitar picks.

Well. Score one for Colt.

“Just a stupid prank. Give me five minutes to run this under hot water and clean myself up and we'll be good to go.”

Walker chuckled as he walked away. “It might be a prank, but from over here, it looked a lot more like foreplay.”

With the growing ache between her thighs, she couldn't help but silently agree. Foreplay, and something more. Something deeper. Something real, and fun, and…happy.

And she knew exactly how she'd pay him back.

C
olt popped a potato chip in his mouth and wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans, setting the bowl of chips down on the kitchen counter.

“So how's working for Taylor Ross?” Clay Michaels sat back in his chair at Colt's kitchen table, a bottle of beer clasped lazily in his hand.

“It's all right,” Colt mumbled around a mouthful of chips.

“Must be good money.” Clay ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. He was a private investigator Colt had worked with at Virtus, and despite the fact that Colt had been canned, the two had remained friends. Sometimes, when a job called for it, Clay did a little freelance work for Colt and Roman as well.

“It is. And it doesn't need a PI. Find your own gig, Michaels.”

Clay laughed as a burst of staccato raps erupted from the front door. Still crunching and enjoying the carbs and saturated fat—two things he usually didn't allow much of in his diet—Colt strode to the front door and flung it open, interrupting the rhythmic knocking. Jamie Anderson, another bodyguard he'd worked with at Virtus, stood on the other side of the door. It was another friendship Colt had managed to retain despite everything that had gone down.

“Hey.” Colt stepped back and gave Jamie space to enter, accepting the six-pack Jamie thrust into his hands. Jamie tipped his chin at him and clapped him on the shoulder. Before he could close the door, he saw Paul's car pull up in front of his house, so he left the door open and headed back into the kitchen to stash the beer in the fridge. He pulled four cold ones out and turned just as Paul entered.

“So I heard that you're working for Taylor Ross now,” said Jamie as he began divvying up the poker chips piled in the center of Colt's kitchen table. Something flashed in his light blue eyes, and he rubbed a hand over his blond buzz cut and then over his mouth, as though he were suppressing a smile. Colt flipped the stereo on before taking his place between Jamie and Clay. Stevie Ray Vaughan started coming through the speakers.

Colt took a sip of his beer. “You did, did you?”

“Yeah. I guess you don't know the, uh, connection there, huh?”

Colt glanced at his cards and frowned, and not just because of the shit hand Jamie had just dealt him. “What connection?”

“Taylor's best friend is Sierra Blake. They're like sisters.”

“And?”

“Sierra's also Sean's girlfriend. They just moved in together.”

Colt took another swallow of beer. “Sean Owens?” As in the guy who ran Virtus, the guy who'd fired Colt? At the mention of Owens, the night he'd lost his job began playing through his mind. The noisy club, filled with writhing bodies, flashing lights and throbbing bass. The fight that had broken out between their client—hip-hop star Tha Thrill—and another clubber. Owens had stepped in to break it up. Colt had backed him up, charging in when he saw the metallic glint of what he'd thought was a knife. He'd shoved Owens aside, and right into the path of another member of the other guy's posse. Owens had taken a beer bottle in the face because of Colt's mistake. The other guy hadn't had a knife, and Colt wasn't sure if it was a trick of the flashing lights, or his own combat memories surfacing at an inopportune time, but he'd misread the situation and fucked up huge. Owens had fired him that night.

And he was dating Taylor's best friend. He turned over that piece of information in his mind, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Owens found out he was working for Taylor, if he hadn't already.

Not a conversation he was looking forward to.

“Anyway, just thought I'd give you a heads up on that. Job's going well?” Jamie glanced briefly at Clay before tossing a few chips into the center of the table.

“Yeah, it's fine. She's a bit of a handful, but it's nothing Roman and I can't handle. Call.” He tossed a couple of chips on top of Clay's.

The doorbell rang, and all three turned to look at Colt, who frowned and shrugged before laying his cards down and pushing up out of his seat. As he left, Jamie leaned forward, whispering something to Clay and Paul. A quick glance through the peephole had adrenaline surging through him. He opened the door to three uniformed LAPD officers, all with stern expressions on their faces.

“Are you Colt Priestley?”

Tension shooting through his neck and up into his jaw, he nodded once as he furiously racked his brain, trying to think of what he'd done to bring not one but three cops to his front door.

“Sir, if you could step back into your house, please.” The three cops surged forward, and Colt froze, noticing that they didn't have bulletproof vests on, and that the badges and guns looked decidedly plastic.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked, shutting the front door behind them but leaving it unlocked. He narrowed his eyes at the boys in blue as a knot coiled in his stomach. If this was some kind of home invasion, they'd picked the wrong fucking house.

“Have a seat please.” The three cops surrounded him and guided him back to his seat in the kitchen. Just as his ass hit the chair, he noticed that it was now facing outward instead of toward the table, and that the stereo had been shut off. The knot in his stomach tightened. These guys weren't cops, but they didn't seem hostile at all either. What the hell was going on?

“You have the right to remain—”

The strains of Foreigner's “Feels Like the First Time” began playing from one of the cops' radios and Colt tried to stand, but was pushed back into his seat by one of the cops.

“—sexy!”

Oh, fuck.

They weren't cops.

They were strippers.

And three guesses who'd sent them.

Suddenly, all three of them had their shirts open, waxed chests glistening as they began gyrating toward him.

As Jamie, Clay, and Paul nearly doubled over with laughter, the three strippers tossed their shirts to the floor, their tight buns wiggling dangerously close to him. A blinking red light caught Colt's attention and he groaned.
Of course
Jamie was recording this. Bastard.

He began to stand again, but was once again pushed down as two very toned, muscular butts wiggled in his face. His head swiveled from left to right as he glanced at his friends, unsure what to do.

And then he felt the cold scrape of metal against his wrist, followed by a sharp click. He jerked his hands away from the chair, only to find his right hand was now fastened securely to it. They might be fake cops, but their handcuffs were very real. Colt bit back a laugh.

“Son of a bitch,” he managed, fighting halfheartedly against the handcuffs as the three police officers each tore away their pants, one after the other, revealing what could only be described as banana hammocks, one in red, one in white, and one in blue. They left nothing to the imagination, and Colt couldn't stop the laugh pressing up into his throat, a blush crawling up his neck and over his face.

A pair of very large, very masculine hands landed on his knees, and he looked up into the face of the stripper directly in front of him, frozen to his seat. The stripper's hands began to move upward over Colt's thighs, and he nearly leaped out of his chair despite the handcuffs.

“Whoa! Hey, now,” he yelped, his eyes starting to water with laughter.

Taylor was going to pay for this.

The inside of the Staples Center was Taylor's favorite kind of chaos as crew members scurried back and forth, some carrying large coils of cable, while others spoke into headsets. The arena had been transformed from a sports venue to a concert venue; a massive stage stood at the far end, illuminated stairs crawling up its sides. The lights flashed from blue to red to white and back again as the technicians tested them. Three huge screens hung behind the stage. More technicians worked on the lighting rigs suspended from the ceiling, aiming spotlights and speaking into buzzing walkie-talkies.

The stage itself was covered with various instruments, cables, microphones, and tools, and was marked up with crisscross patterns of masking and electrical tape. Taylor took a deep breath as a sense of contentment settled over her. Places like this, filled with the promise of great music and entertainment, made her feel more alive than just about anything. She spotted Jeremy chatting with Walker and started toward them, picking her way over wires and equipment, Colt at her back. Surprising her again, he'd insisted on carrying her heavy guitar case and purse for her.

“Morning, beautiful. Looks like you got most of the sparkles off,” Walker said by way of greeting.

She nodded. “Yeah. Most of them.” She'd spent the better part of yesterday evening de-glittering herself. Colt had been right; that shit stuck to everything. Especially skin. And leather pants.

“I'll meet you backstage in a few,” said Walker, tipping his hat and heading off in the direction of the stage.

“I think he's got a little crush on you.”

Liquid heat pooled in her belly at the sound of Colt's low rumble.

“How was your poker game?” she asked, ignoring Colt's comment and the accompanying thrill that he might be jealous.

He smiled as he set down her guitar case and the skin around his eyes crinkled. Her stomach did a slow turn in response. “Arresting.”

She snorted before tossing her head back and laughing. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Hey, now. Didn't say that.”

Just when she thought she couldn't have been more attracted to him, he blushed. This guy, who might as well have had
ALPHA MALE
tattooed on his forehead,
fucking blushed
, and alarm bells rang, shrill and clear, through Taylor's mind. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so attracted to someone. She hadn't even felt this way with Zack.

And that was dangerous. After everything that had happened with Zack, and the crazy-hot night she'd shared with Colt, she knew better than to let herself feel anything for him. But she knew better about a lot of the stupid shit she did.

“Hey, you've got a little something…” He reached out his free hand and rubbed his thumb over her jaw, skimming his warm hand against her ear. “Sparkles.” He smiled again and pulled his hand away, rubbing his thumb rapidly against his fingers, and sure enough, a few silvery fragments fell from his hand like fairy dust.

For a second, she froze, watching the glitter fall and catch the light while her insides melted.

Fuck.

Needing to escape, she snatched up her guitar case, spun on her heel, and hurried backstage without a word.

Colt watched as Taylor walked away, frustration warring with lust. One second they'd been flirting, and the next she'd thrown her shields back up and was practically running in the opposite direction. Again.

A vibration from his left hand startled him out of his lustful staring and when he looked down, he realized that he was still holding Taylor's purse. He glanced around before peeking inside, and a smile broke across his face when he confirmed that the vibration had come from her phone.

Time for a little revenge.

He settled himself in one of the seats to the side of the stage, keeping an eye on Taylor as she tested her guitar, popped in an earpiece, and asked a question about her amp through the live mic. Colt was doing his best to stay out of everyone's way, and he figured his seat up and away from the action was the best spot to watch and work on his next prank.

He glanced around again before pulling her phone out and tucking her purse beneath his seat. Feeling only slightly guilty that he'd observed the pattern she used to unlock her phone, he swiped his finger in a zigzag across the screen. Opening up her texting app, he went to work.

A while later, he looked up when the overhead lights dimmed and the stage lights came to life. Musicians took their places onstage, and his eyes immediately jumped to Taylor, who had her white guitar slung around her neck. The opening drum roll and bass line of Walker's hit, “Damn Shame,” echoed out across the stage as Walker entered, guitar in hand, cowboy hat on head, striding confidently to the mic at center stage.

But Colt wasn't watching Walker, because he couldn't have torn his eyes away from Taylor if his life had depended on it. Sure, he'd spent the past few days with her in her studio, listening to her rehearse, but seeing her up onstage was something else entirely. Watching her strut around the stage, all sexy confidence and bad-girl swagger, playing crisp, strong chords on her guitar, was one hell of an aphrodisiac. She flung her head back, her blond hair falling around her slender shoulders like a gold curtain and she smiled, seductive and sure. He shifted in his seat, making room in his jeans for his quickly rising cock.

And then she worked her way to the mic beside Walker's, opened her mouth and joined him on the chorus. Rich and feminine with that crazy-hot rasp to it, she added a sexy little rock-n-roll growl every time she sang the words “damn shame,” and for a second, Colt didn't understand why Walker would want to play with Taylor, because she was upstaging him and completely stealing the show. Even Walker couldn't seem to take his eyes off her as she sang and played; there was no denying the presence she had onstage.

She broke into a guitar solo, her long, slender fingers moving easily as she picked out notes, twisted them and wrung them out, stage lights strobing and pulsing, seemingly in time with Colt's blood. They finished the song, and the director hopped onstage to give them some pointers about camera angles.

Between takes of the song, as if sensing his eyes on her, she looked up and searched for him in the stands. His heart lurched against his ribs when her eyes landed on him. Even with the stage lights casting shadows and the distance separating them, he could see an intensity there as she stared at him, her tongue poking against the inside of her lip, her brows drawn in a contemplative frown.