Primal Instinct (5 page)

Wiping blood from his mouth with his thumb, Baldy lunged for him, and Colt took another swing but missed this time. He swung again, only to have his punch blocked. Baldy shoved him and used the bit of space between them to connect his fist with Colt's face. Pain shot across his cheekbone and then exploded against his nose as Baldy landed a second punch. Blood trickled into Colt's mouth as adrenaline surged through him, numbing the pain. Numbing everything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roman slam his biker into the table, a grim smile on his face. The bar's bouncers were now swarming toward them, and Colt seized the opportunity to crunch his fist against Mr. Clean's nose, landing one final punch.

“That's enough!” roared the head bouncer, a vein throbbing ominously on his forehead as the others surged forward to separate Colt, Roman, and the bikers. “Get the hell out, all of you, before I call the cops.”

Colt held his hands up in front of his chest, fingers pointing to the ceiling in a placating gesture. “We're leaving, Donny. For the record, we didn't start it.”

“Sure as fuck finished it, though,” said Roman, his split upper lip his only injury. With blood trickling from noses, lips, and other cuts, the two bikers were in much worse shape.

Colt started to smile, but it quickly turned into a wince. Raising his fingers to his cheek, they came away smeared with blood. Already, he could feel his eye swelling.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet, tossed a few bills down on the table, and clapped Roman on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

His heart still beat furiously against his ribs, the high from the fight giving everything a euphoric tint. The physical release, the satisfaction of having his friend's back, the pride at holding his own and taking a few punches, all of it swirled together inside him, cresting in a wave he was more than happy to ride. Right before they reached the door, Roman spun around, facing the bikers who were being restrained by the bouncers.

“You see Lucy, you tell her to give me a call. Now that she's had a taste of a real man, I doubt she'll want anything to do with you.” Shooting them a cocky grin, he pushed the door open and Colt followed him outside, ready to spend the rest of the night savoring this high.

And tomorrow he'd see Taylor again.

T
aylor turned her Corvette into the parking lot of what she affectionately referred to as the Sanctuary. It was an old church on the edge of the trendy Silver Lake neighborhood that she'd bought a few years ago. She'd spent months renovating it, turning it into exactly what she wanted. The high ceilings were fitted with sound panels in between the exposed wood beams, and large windows filled the space with natural light. The hardwood floors were draped with Oriental rugs, and comfy, broken-in leather furniture, all in shades of brown and tan, was spaced throughout. Stocked with top-end gear, including her ever-growing collection of guitars, it was definitely one of her happy places. Usually. When the specter of unwritten songs wasn't following her around.

She hadn't actually been to the space in months, too afraid to face the physical representation of everything she used to be able to do—sing, jam, perform, write—while in the biggest writing funk of her career. But this morning, she'd woken up with chords running through her head for the first time in ages. Chords and lyrics, too, and so she'd called Jeremy to let him know she'd be spending the day actually working on music. He'd been overjoyed.

He'd also told her that her new shadows had been hired, two freelance bodyguards. The first one on duty would be meeting her at the Sanctuary, and then he and his partner would trade off, keeping tabs on her round the clock. They'd be in her space—the Sanctuary, her house—babysitting her.

She blew out an angry breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension gathered there. Fine. Whatever. She'd just ignore them and do her thing. They could treat her like a prisoner, but she would try to focus on the music, on trying to find the joy in creating something. Of pulling sounds from her brain and translating them into music with her hands on a guitar or a piano, and her voice. When the writing went well, there was a high that came with it, a creative buzz that only seemed to feed more creativity. But when it wasn't? Her brain didn't know what to do with itself.

She put the car in Park and switched off the ignition, gathering up her purse and iPad before making her way toward the solid oak double doors at the front of the Sanctuary. She paused midstep, let out a low whistle, and made a beeline for the car parked on the other side of the small lot. If she wasn't mistaken, the car drawing her like a bee to a flower was a 1968 Dodge Charger in beautiful condition. Shiny and black, it sat gleaming in the sun, calling to her like a beacon. Unable to resist, she ducked down and peered inside, trying not to drool over the custom leather interior and the upgraded chrome finishes shining in the morning light. The Charger's interior was pristine, the only disturbance an empty water bottle on the passenger seat. She walked around the car in a slow, appreciative circle. God, would she love to wrap her hands around that steering wheel.

Then she stood up straight when she realized that it must be the bodyguard's car. It didn't belong to any of the studio's staff or musicians, whose cars were parked throughout the lot, and she could see Jeremy's Bentley SUV parked several spaces away. So unless someone had illegally parked on private property, process of elimination pointed to him. And she had a feeling that whoever drove this car would never risk parking it illegally.

“Huh,” she said out loud, tearing herself away from the car and heading into the studio, a rush of cool, quiet air greeting her, and it hit her just how much she'd missed this place. Maybe avoiding it during her dry spell had been a mistake, because as she pulled the scent of it into her, she was suddenly eager to have a guitar in her hands. She pulled her sunglasses off and dropped them into her purse. Her black boots clicked against the floor as she entered the main rehearsal space, and a tension she'd been carrying for months now began to lift.

“Taylor?” Jeremy poked his head around the corner, a relieved smile turning up the corners of his lips.

“What? You thought I wouldn't come?” She quirked her mouth up in a teasing smile.

“It crossed my mind, yes. Can't imagine why.”

Rolling her eyes, she strode forward into the large, open space and dropped her purse on one of the leather couches, peeled off her jacket and tossed it down beside her bag. Reaching over the couch to the guitar rack nestled against its back, she pulled out her Gibson Western Classic, a large acoustic guitar that she loved for its rich, full sound. She hadn't held it in months, and the feel of the polished wood against her fingers was like coming home. Something inside her was waking up after a long hibernation. Finally.

She turned, and her heart dropped into her stomach at the sight of Colt, sitting on a stool at the back and chatting with Mike, her studio manager. Totally relaxed and at home. Drinking a cup of fucking coffee. Looking sexy as hell.

Looking as if he had every right to be here.

“Taylor, this is Colt Priestley.” Jeremy waved a hand in Colt's direction, who stood from his perch on the stool and strode toward her. A flash of metal at his hip caught her attention, a holster peeking out from under the hem of his T-shirt.

Oh God. Colt was a bodyguard. He was
her
bodyguard. Everything clicked into place—his protectiveness at the bar the other night, the military tattoo she'd seen in the dark, the scars she'd noticed on his body, but hadn't asked him about.

No. No, no, no.
She couldn't do this.

A dizzying swirl of emotions crashed into her, and for a second, she forgot how to breathe. Anger, fear, disappointment, lust, and anxiety all wove together into a fucked-up tapestry, wrapping her in its unwelcome fabric. She suddenly felt cold, despite the trickle of sweat working its way between her breasts at the sight of him. Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she wondered what they'd all do if she bolted, just got in the Corvette and drove away. But instead, she stood where she was, pinned by the weight of it all.

“What the fuck?” She didn't realize she'd spoken the words out loud until Jeremy shot her a puzzled glance. Her skin tingled uncomfortably, a cold wave of dread crashing into her. She recovered quickly as Colt's eyes met hers.

He wore beat-up jeans and a gray Henley shirt, his sleeves pushed up around his elbows, leaving a swath of those tantalizing feathers exposed. His jeans emphasized his muscled thighs, and suddenly she was looking at his package and remembering how freaking fantastic he'd felt inside her.

She snapped her eyes back up, and the confusing turmoil of emotions continued to churn through her, disorienting her. She hadn't wanted to see him again, and now here he stood, staring at her with those gorgeous green eyes, and she knew she was in trouble. Because even though she'd had the sense to run after the intensity they'd shared, she still wanted him. Wanted his mouth on hers, his big hands on her hips, and everything that came after.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and she noticed his knuckles, bruised and scraped. Her eyes darted back to his face, and she saw the black eye and the cut across his cheekbone that she'd been too stunned to notice at first. The obvious signs that he'd been in a fight sent another completely unwelcome ripple of arousal pulsing through her. He looked so damn sexy all scuffed up. She wanted to reach out and skim her fingers over the cut on his cheek, but instead, she curled her fingers into her palms, trying to shrink into herself and away from him. She wanted very much to pick up right where they'd left off, and that simply couldn't happen. For her own sake, she had to fight this pull she felt toward him.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the intensity in his green eyes as he'd asked her to come home with him. Being with Colt had been so much more than a simple distraction, and she knew that he'd consume her if she let him. Consume her like fire, and considering she was already ashes, she couldn't let that happen.

She paused for a second, wondering why the hell she was so convinced that he'd hurt her if she gave him the chance. And then it hit her.

It was because he seemed too good to be true, and so had Zack. Colt was hot as hell, funny, kind, tough, and amazing in bed. But thanks to that experience with Zack, now she knew that if something seemed too good to be true, she needed to run.

She met his eyes again, and she felt pinned in place, naked and exposed. She opened her mouth, but then promptly closed it. What the hell was she supposed to say to him? Nice to see you again?
Shit.

So instead, she caught Jeremy's eye and cocked her head toward the door that led to the small office. She fought against the urge to keep staring at Colt, to keep drinking him in with her thirsty eyes.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked. Without waiting for Jeremy to respond, she grabbed him by the elbow, strode to the office and flung the door open, hoping no one would notice the slight tremble in her fingers.

“What?” he asked, leaning back against the desk, a puzzled look on his face.

“This isn't going to work out.” She bit her lip and looked down at the floor.

“Why on earth not? You haven't even spoken to him. Don't you think you're judging awfully fast?”

She resisted the urge to scuff her foot against the floor as hot tears pooled in her eyes. She let out a panicked laugh, and anger began to push out the initial shock at seeing Colt again. She clung to that anger, feeding off of it, letting it strengthen her.

“Because I don't need a bodyguard. This is ridiculous. I'm exactly where I said I was going to be today, aren't I? Give me one more chance, and I promise I won't let you down.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “He's here to stay. I'm sorry you don't like it, but he and his partner have been contracted by the label. It's done. There's nothing I can do.” Jeremy arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to respond.

Not keen to share her one-night stand with Colt and further emphasize her recent track record of less-than-stellar behavior, she simply shook her head.

“Good. I have to go; I have a meeting. Play nice.”

She closed her eyes and took a breath, pulling herself together. She could do this. Somehow, she'd find a way to cope being around him. She'd focus on her music. She'd ignore him. She'd pretend that night had never happened.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea charged through her, hot and searing. She could drive him to quit. Push him away and make him regret ever signing up for this job. She'd kill two birds with one stone: she'd protect herself, and get rid of the studio's insulting bodyguard in one fell swoop. She'd keep her heart to herself and channel her anger. It was win-win.

She took another deep breath, walked back into the studio's main area and picked her guitar back up. She sank down onto one of the leather sofas and began fiddling with the tuning keys.

“Hey. Are you okay?” It was the first time Colt had spoken to her.

Unable to help herself, her head snapped up, and she asked the question that had been spinning through her mind for several minutes now. “Is this some kind of joke? Had you already taken this job before we…the other night?”

His eyes widened for a second, and then he shook his head slowly, watching her with a wariness that hadn't been there before. “No. I didn't. I wouldn't have kept this from you. I learned about the job after.” He sat down on the sofa opposite her. “And I took it because I wanted to see you again.”

Her stupid, traitorous heart fluttered in her chest at his words, but she stomped down the flutters, still clinging to that anger. To the idea that he couldn't be here. “Well I didn't want to see you.” Her mouth moved before she could stop it, and at the fleeting flash of pain in his eyes, she wished she could call the words back.

He cleared his throat and leaned forward, his forearms braced on his thighs, his green eyes flashing with an undercurrent of danger. “That why you stole my T-shirt? Because what happened meant nothing to you?”

“I just really like Led Zeppelin,” she said, struggling to keep her tone flat and her face neutral.

Colt rubbed a hand over his mouth—a mouth that she knew could make her moan, could make her wet, could make her ache with need—and exhaled loudly. “Why are you being like this? I thought we…”

“We what?” She blinked at him. “It was one night, Colt. That's all.” She paused for a second. “Did you take this job thinking you'd get another chance to…” She swallowed, struggling to maintain focus with all of the tiny, fleeting thoughts flickering through her brain, each one bouncing up against the other, but nothing joining together to make a cohesive picture.

He closed his eyes for a second. “Of course not. I'm here to help you.”

She didn't say anything, unable to make her mouth work, and just kept fiddling with the tuner keys, needing something to do with her hands, otherwise she'd grab him and kiss him, and completely ruin the progress she'd already made at shoving some distance between them.

He sat back on the couch, and she tried not to pay attention to the way his forearms flexed when he crossed his arms, or to the way his low voice sent dangerous ripples of lust chasing one another over her skin. Tried to ignore the way his face attracted her eyes like a magnet. She'd only seen him in dim light the night before, and she hadn't noticed the faint dusting of freckles across his nose. Paired with the slight scruff highlighting his perfectly formed jaw, he looked rugged and sexy, with the tiniest hint of pretty. With his wide shoulders, strong arms and sturdy frame (not to mention the black eye and the tattoo), he didn't look like someone you'd want to mess with.

He was strong, and sturdy, and completely off-limits.

“Taylor,” Colt started again, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He'd known just showing up was a risk, but he hadn't expected her to react like this. She didn't look at him when he said her name, just propped the guitar on her knee and started playing easy, slow scales, gradually speeding up. She didn't watch her hands as she plucked gracefully at the strings.