Primal Instinct (6 page)

“Hey, hand me that capo.”

“What?” He frowned. Those were
not
the words he'd been expecting to come out of that pretty mouth.

“That black thing on the table. Toss it.”

Doing as he was told, he picked up the small black clamp and lobbed it to her. She caught it easily in one hand. He watched with a mixture of curiosity and lust as she shoved her guitar pick between her lips and began fastening the capo over the guitar's neck, securing it behind the second fret. She swung the guitar back down over her knee and began strumming the opening riff of “Smoke on the Water.” Strumming her gleaming acoustic guitar and ignoring him. Trying and almost succeeding at looking as though seeing him meant nothing to her. Her eyes darted up and caught his, and there was a guardedness that hadn't been there the night before.

The certainty that someone had hurt her—badly—settled over him like a blanket. He studied her intently. He could see the tension coiled her shoulders, the stiff tilt of her neck.

She chewed on her lip as she strummed, and he clenched his jaw at the intense urge to trace his tongue over the indents left by her teeth, to soothe the bite before maybe replacing those marks with some of his own. He stirred in his jeans at the thought and clenched his jaw even harder, his back molars squeaking under the pressure.

For whatever reason, she was throwing up walls around herself, trying to keep him out. And if that was what she wanted to do—what she
needed
to do, for whatever reason—he'd let her. But he also wasn't going anywhere. He knew, without a doubt, that he'd done the right thing taking this job. He'd been carrying around an uneasiness since he'd woken up alone, her side of the bed cold, and it had only lifted when he'd set eyes on her again. So she could keep him out, but meanwhile, he'd keep her safe.

Long moments went by and she just kept strumming. Not looking at him. Not talking to him. Not giving him anything. She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. Finally, she spoke. “So. Just how short is my leash?”

“Your leash?”

She set the guitar down beside her. “How does this work? What are the rules?”

“Pretty simple, really. Your label's hired me and Roman—who you'll meet later—to be your bodyguards, so wherever you go, so do we. I'm sure you've had a bodyguard before.”

“Uh huh. And how is this 24/7 thing going to work? You'll be in my house?” She pushed up off the couch and walked to the stainless-steel fridge near the office door. Reaching inside, she pulled out two bottles of water. Striding toward him, she tossed one to him.

“Yeah. We'll be in your house.”

Her delicate features tightened. “So I guess I should just call you warden, then.” She blew out a breath and twisted the cap off of her water.

“It doesn't have to be that way. Roman and I are here to help you. We can deal with the paparazzi and make sure there are no other threats to your safety while you're working on this album. You asked me why I took this job, and I told you it was because I wanted to see you again. That's the truth. I also took it because when I heard your label was hiring security for you, I didn't want to leave it up to anyone else.”

Raising her eyebrows, she plopped back down in the chair, letting his words hang between them. Setting her water on the floor, she picked up the guitar again, removed the capo, and tossed it down beside the water. She began playing “Blackbird,” this time singing as well as playing, seeming to forget that he was sitting right in front of her. Soon, he found himself leaning forward, as if under a spell, as she sang. Her voice was beautiful, rich and strong, with a feminine rasp to it. He'd heard her music before—on the radio, on TV—but hearing her sing from only a few feet away was an entirely different experience. Her fingers moved easily over the frets, moving seamlessly from chord to chord. She leaned over the guitar, and her blond hair spilled over her slender shoulders, catching the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows and taking on a sheen like spun gold.

For the first time in his life, he understood why women threw their panties at rock stars. Watching her play and listening to her sing in person was a much bigger turn-on than he ever would've anticipated. He took a sip of his water, trying to taper the edge of his arousal.

She played the whole song through, and he sat and listened as he mentally replayed their night together for what had to be the five hundredth time. When she was finished, she looked up at him, her lips turned up in a sexy half smile, as though the music had somehow relaxed her. “How'd you get the black eye?”

“Just a little misunderstanding in a bar.”

“Looks like more than just a little misunderstanding.”

He returned her smile. “You should see the other guy.”

She picked her bottle of water up off the floor, peering down and hiding her smile. But he saw it anyway, and it caught him right in the chest. She stood again, and walked to the guitar rack behind him, her loose Guns N' Roses T-shirt hanging from her shoulders and gathering around her hips. As she paced by him, he watched her legs, once again clad in black denim, and he was hit with the memory of just how fantastic they'd felt wrapped around his hips.

“I saw your Charger out there. It's…pretty nice,” she said from behind him.

He nodded. “Thanks. Restored it myself.” He looked up at her as she resumed her seat opposite him, resting a white-and-gold electric guitar across her lap. “You're into cars?”

“Fast ones, yeah.”

“What do you drive?”

“I have a 'seventy Stingray.”

He let out a low whistle. “Nice. Automatic?”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “Course not.”

He smiled and then swallowed thickly. Damn. Just when he couldn't be more attracted to her. She was gorgeous, and talented, and a hundred other things.

She was everything he had no fucking right to want, and he'd do them both a favor if he remembered that.

Ronnie sat on the floor of his apartment, the parquet squares hard and cool against his naked flesh. The door to the linen closet sat open in front of him and he stared blankly ahead, trying to sift through the emotions tugging at him. He didn't know what to do with those emotions. They crawled over his skin like bugs, skittering over him in different directions. Tiny and ugly and worthless. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and one by one, he picked up the bugs and crushed them between his fingers, savoring the crisp crunch of shell and legs.

The power to destroy something was a beautiful thing. Destruction was control. It was ownership. There was a succulent completeness to ending something's existence, to witnessing the moment something ceased to be. To own that last moment…there was nothing more intimate. More divine.

He opened his eyes and focused on what was in front of him. Over a year ago, it had started with pictures from websites he'd printed off, or cut out of old magazines he'd stolen from the library, and it had grown into something special. A symbol of his devotion. A shrine to the woman he loved. He'd covered the inside of the linen closet with pictures of Taylor, both professionally taken ones and ones he'd taken himself starting several months back once he'd found her. She'd been surprisingly easy to find—there was information on fan websites about her studio, and by searching real estate records at the library, he'd quickly figured out which building it was. He'd only had to stake it out for a couple of days before she made an appearance, and he'd followed her home that night.

He'd been following her ever since, and the other night at the Rainbow, he'd finally worked up the courage to talk to her, only to have that fucking brute ruin everything. If it hadn't been for him, Taylor would've been his that night, and she never would've left. He would've kept her. Forever.

And then the brute had shown up again this morning at her studio.

He was a problem. One Ronnie knew Taylor needed his help with.

With a frustrated snarl, he returned his attention to his shrine. He'd scoured eBay for Taylor Ross paraphernalia—T-shirts she'd worn in concert, guitar picks, signed CDs. The items lined the shelves, and he reached out a hand, running his fingers over the cool glass of a signed, framed concert picture of Taylor.

He took a deep breath and soaked it all in, waiting for it to replenish him as it always did.

But this time, it wasn't enough. Not after he'd had his hands on her. Not after he'd smelled her hair, felt the warmth of her skin.

He needed more. He needed to be closer to her.

He would continue to watch, but he knew he needed to figure out how to take what belonged to him. To win her over and get rid of the brute, as he knew she wanted him to.

To take her and keep her and love her and own her.

T
he scent of grilling meat and fresh-cut grass filled Colt's nostrils as he walked through the open gate and into his sister's backyard. His eyes scanned the space, darting over the patio table and chairs, the play set, and the bench nestled under the ash tree in the corner. Lacey had sworn up and down she hadn't invited her, but it wouldn't be beyond her to trap Colt and their mother into spending time together. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“Uncle Colt!” A small body barreled into him, wrapping skinny arms around Colt's legs.

Smiling, Colt ruffled his five-year-old nephew's hair. “Hey, Ben. Good to see you buddy.”

“Benjamin Thomas Abbot! Did you hit your brother?” His sister Lacey's voice came from several feet away, stern and annoyed. Colt hoisted the kid up and hung him upside down by his ankles. Ben squealed with laugher and tried to wriggle free.

“Are you being good? Or are you a troublemaker?”

“Mom says I'm a troublemaker like you,” he said, smiling upside down and revealing a missing front tooth.

“You know what they do to troublemakers like us?” Colt asked, struggling to keep his expression serious. Ben shook his head, his light brown hair fanning out around him. “Tickle torture!” He laid Ben down on the ground and went to town, eliciting shrieks and giggles from him.

“I'll be good! I promise!” he gasped out between fits of giggles.

“Dude, you caved
so
fast. You're such a baby.” Ben's eight-year-old brother, Nick, stood over them, his arms crossed.

“No one can withstand my tickle torture.” Colt wiggled his eyebrows and let Ben up before he peed his pants.

Lacey crouched down in front of Ben. “No hitting. You know the rules. If you're upset, use your words. Next time, you're in time-out. Got it?”

Ben nodded. Nick smirked.

“And you.” She wheeled on Nick. “Enough with the tattling. Now please, go play without killing each other.” She waved them away and they took off for the play set on the other side of the backyard. By the time they got there, Nick had Ben in a headlock. Almost immediately, they were wrestling.

Lacey let out a long breath. “Boys. Only so much you can do, right?”

Colt smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Pretty much. But they're good kids, Lace.” She nodded and headed back into the house, a kitchen towel slung over her shoulder.

And they were good kids, most of the time. He loved his nephews. Loved roughhousing with them, tossing a ball around, playing Legos, watching
Star Wars
and
The Avengers
with them, over and over again. He rubbed a hand over his chest, and reminded himself to be happy with what he had. To stop wasting time and energy pining over something that could never happen.

Immediately, he thought of Taylor.

She'd spent several hours at her studio yesterday, ignoring him while she worked on a new song. While she'd been working, her manager, Jeremy, had reappeared, and he and Colt had had a serious conversation about making sure Taylor behaved. No more trouble. Her focus needed to be on writing new music.

At the end of the day yesterday, she'd tossed a casual “See ya, Priestley” over her shoulder and made for the door. Roman had come to pick her up and escort her home, where Colt would be joining them later. For the next few weeks, Colt and Roman would trade off on Taylor duty, never leaving her unattended. Thinking about it, he understood why she felt like a prisoner. Why she'd been so angry yesterday. He'd seen it—in her eyes, in the stiff set of her shoulders, in the jerkiness of her movements—but he hadn't fully got it until he'd transferred her over to Roman's care. They'd each set up in one of the guest rooms, trying to give Taylor as much space and privacy as possible while still making sure she was safe. Although considering she was her own biggest threat, the fact that her label had hired two professional bodyguards to babysit her was pretty damn insulting. But he was happy to be under the same roof, less than a hundred feet away.

Roman was with her now, giving Colt the afternoon off so he could go to Lacey's for a barbecue and some time with his nephews. Reaching into his back pocket, Colt fished his phone out, knowing that Roman would call if anything came up. A couple of texts, but no missed calls. He opened the texts and frowned. Both were from unknown numbers.

He swiped to the second message.

Weird. Wrong numbers, maybe. At least there was nothing work related. He was free to enjoy his afternoon.

“Hey, Colt. How are you?” His brother-in-law, Paul, wandered over from his position in front of the barbecue, a can of soda in each hand. He extended one toward Colt, who accepted it with a smile and cracked it open.

“I'm good. You?”

“Yeah. Good. Lacey tells me you're working for Taylor Ross?” He arched an eyebrow and leaned in. “That true?”

Colt took a long swallow of his Coke. “Yep.”

Paul whistled. “Man. She's on my list.”

“Your list?”

“You know, the freebie five? Five celebrities that, if given the opportunity, I can sleep with and get a pass.”

Colt almost snorted soda through his nose. “I see.” Not one to kiss and tell, Colt let the comment slide, and his phone buzzed again from his back pocket.

“The hell?” Colt muttered. Another unknown number.

“Something wrong?” asked Paul, trying to peer at Colt's screen. Colt knew Paul liked to live vicariously through him—being a bodyguard to celebrities and other high-profile clients was a lot more exciting than being an accountant for a chain of sushi restaurants—and he was usually happy to humor him with what details he could without violating a client's confidentiality. He knew Paul wasn't trying to be nosy. In fact, he really liked Paul. He was the only one of Lacey's boyfriends he hadn't wanted to punch in the face. Hell, he
had
punched a couple. But they'd deserved it. No one hurt Lace and didn't answer to him for it.

“Nah.” He tucked his phone back in his pocket just as it buzzed. Again. This time the text message was accompanied by a picture of a person wearing a head-to-toe fox costume, like the kind you'd see an entertainer wearing at Disneyland.

“The fuck?” He muttered again.

“Watch your mouth,” chimed in Lacey, who'd just reappeared from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with watermelon slices, potato chips, sliced-up veggies, and a bowl of dip.

“Sorry,” he said, taking the tray from Lacey's hands and setting it down on the nearby table.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked, and turned back toward the house without waiting for his answer. It was sweet, the way she pretended he had a choice. He followed her, and as he stepped inside the small but warm and welcoming Spanish-style bungalow, his phone buzzed again. He quickly checked it again to make sure it wasn't Taylor or Roman. It wasn't. With a grunt, he shoved it back in his pocket. But it buzzed. Again. And again. More texts came in, some featuring pictures of people dressed up as various animals.

His jaw tightened as he changed his phone from vibrate mode to ring, and assigned both Taylor's and Roman's numbers a unique ringtone, ignoring the rest for now. He needed either of them to be able to get in touch, but everyone else could fuck off. He tossed his phone, screen down, on the table, and sat down across from Lacey. A pair of green eyes that he knew were identical to his own stared at him, tension etched across her brow. She tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear.

“She really wants to see you, you know.”

He knew exactly the “she” Lacey was talking about. Their mother, who'd blamed him for her first husband—and Colt and Lacey's father—leaving. Who'd been nasty, and cold, and a shitty excuse for a mother. Who'd dragged him and Lace from one bad relationship to another. He'd spent most of his life looking after Lacey, keeping her safe and making sure everything turned out okay for her. Making sure that if anything bad was coming their way—and with their childhood, there'd
always
been something bad coming—he would be the one standing in front of her, ready to take the brunt of it. As far as their mother was concerned, anything that ever went wrong was somehow his fault, given his propensity for driving away her scuzzy boyfriends, and after he'd beat the snot out of that creep for touching Lacey, his mother had given him the boot.

He'd come home from his job at the Shell gas station up the road to find his stuff in a beat-up box on the porch. Lacey had sat on the stoop, her eyes red from crying. He'd never forget the feeling of disgust that had nearly choked him because all he'd ever wanted was to shelter her from as much shittiness as possible, and he'd failed. He'd spent his entire life protecting her, and ultimately, it had blown up in his face because their mother had repeatedly chosen her latest boyfriend over her own children.

This
was the woman Lacey wanted to build a relationship with.

Colt sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, well. I don't want to see her, and frankly, I'm surprised you do. You don't remember what she put us through?”

“Of course I remember,” she said softly, looking down at her lap. “But she's still our mother. And she's better, Colt. Better than I've ever seen her. She's sober, and she's got a job. A nice apartment. No man in her life. She's really trying.”

“I can't, Lace. I can't open that door.”

“Why not?” She leaned forward, challenging him.

“Because
I'm
trying, too, and I'm finally in a good place with everything. Seeing her, talking to her, whatever…it'll just undo it all.” He watched the storm clouds gather in his sister's eyes.

“Bullshit. You're not in a good place, Colt.” She reached out a hand and laid it on his forearm, her hand pale against the black feathers marking his skin. “I worry about you.”

He laid his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Don't. I'm good.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are not. You're lonely, and I'd bet you still have nightmares.”

Lacey had always had a knack for making him feel as if she could see right through him. She was right; he did still have nightmares.

Except for the night with Taylor. He'd slept more peacefully that night than he had in years, and he knew it wasn't just because of the fantastic sex. There'd been something about her, the peace that had settled over him with her in his arms. Something he needed to chase. Something he couldn't just let go.

“I'm fine. I'm not lonely, or unhappy, so please don't worry about me, okay?” He rolled his tight shoulders as he lied to his sister. He stood and paced to the window, his chest tightening as he watched Ben and Nick play pirates on the play set. She came and stood beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the boys play, and then watching Paul chase them around the yard, each holding a foam sword.

“You said that you're not lonely or unhappy, but you didn't deny that you still have nightmares.” She looked up at him.

He didn't say anything, just kept his gaze straight ahead, watching his nephews play.

She waited several moments before saying quietly, “You could tell me about what happened over there. It might help.”

He pressed his lips into a firm line and a wave of nausea rolled through him.

“Nothing to tell, Lace.” Even to him, his voice sounded strained, rough. He hated lying to her.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a sideways hug. “People don't have nightmares about nothing.”

No. They didn't.

Fuck. He was so fucking fucked. Frank Ross curled his hand into a fist and slammed it down onto the table, making its contents jump.

He hadn't been surprised when Taylor had told him to go fuck himself. But the bitch had changed her number, and now his only connection to her was gone. He listened as the prerecorded message played over again in a robotic female voice.

“Welcome to Verizon Wireless. The number you dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”

With a forceful jab of his thumb on the screen, he ended the call, then threw his phone onto the table and jammed his hands onto his hips as his pulse hammered away wildly in his throat. He paced the small room at the back of the bar. A loud shout erupted from the front room, followed by the thud of boots scraping over the worn wood floor as a couple of bikers from the gang came to blows. Just another Thursday night.

Frank stared at the table in front of him, at the neat pile of white bricks wrapped in plastic. Eight kilos of cocaine.

There were supposed to be twelve. And at $30,000 each, that meant he was in the hole $120,000. It was money he didn't have. And if the rest of the gang found out about this, he'd have a mutiny on his hands. If they found out he'd started dipping into the supply, they'd kill him for bringing the Golden Brotherhood heavies down on them. And that was if the Golden Brotherhood didn't kill Frank first for stealing from them.

The Golden Brotherhood, the biggest, most powerful organized crime group in Los Angeles, had contracted the Grim Weavers to move the cocaine the Brotherhood was bringing in from Colombia. According to the books, the Brotherhood had given them twenty kilos to move a month ago. They'd dealt eight, and they should have had twelve kilos left. Frank had no reasonable way to account for the four missing kilos. It had started out so small; he'd taken a little—such a fucking small amount, really—for himself. No harm in a little skimming off the top. But he'd done more than skim, and he'd quickly developed a ten-gram-a-day habit. So he'd taken a little more of the supply, selling it for a little extra on the side, trying to make enough to make up the difference. He hadn't. So he'd sold a whole kilo to another gang, inflating the margins.